Analysis of Homer’s Odyssey through Neologisms

Homer’s classic Epic—Odyssey belongs to the cannons of Greek Literature. Odyssey is a description of the return voyage of the epic hero Ulysses after the Trojan War. He is faced with insurmountable problems with the sea God Poseidon being against him. At home in Ithaca there are various suitors who are greedy for his Penelope. He is successfully able to overcome all the problems and slay the suitors competing for his wife. Here I would like to analyze the Odyssey using newly coined neologisms.
Meta-Psychosis
Meta-Psychosis is a condition where Gods and Goddesses intervene in the fate of man. In the book we counter various aspects of meta-psychosis. Let’s look at the anger of Poseidon on Ulysses causing him to be ship-wrecked. Then there is Goddess Athena who pleas to Zeus so that he might be rescued. We encounter the hero being caught by the wiles of the nymph Calypso and Circe. Meta-psychosis in a modern context applies to humans who are subject to the fate of their destiny.
Demo-anarchism
Demo-anarchism is coined from democracy and anarchism. In the state of Ithaca presuming the death of the protagonist there are a number of suitors competing to gain their hand in marriage of Penelope. This can be classified as the existence of demo-anarchism. Penelope takes a bold stance and evades the wishes of the suitors. The Trojan War was a war fought on democratic grounds and it can be compared to the Gulf War where America freed Kuwait from the hands of Saddam Hussein. The decision made by the God Poseidon not to favor the journey of Ulysses is also a state of demo-anarchism.
Paradoxis
Paradoxis is a peculiar trauma faced by Ulysses when he is ship wrecked and stranded on various islands. He faces the condition of being in paradox of being human and being God. Yet he remains steadfast in his faith to be loyal to Penelope and to return to the island of Ithaca. When confronted by Calypso and Circe he is successfully able to evade their temptations by the intervention of Gods. Paradoxis also refers to the conflict of Gods weighing down on the fate of Ulysses.
Meta-Colonization
Meta-colonization is a symptom of Gods being colonialists and interfering with the life of the hero. The wrath of Poseidon and the ship-wrecking of Ulysses all point out the birth of colonization in a metaphysical sense. The whole history of European colonization has its birth in the poem. We find the character of the actor in the poem to be democratic, seeking the pursuit of democracy by the strength of character.
Mytho-poesis
Mytho-poesis is the characterization of the web of the super-natural and natural elements into the craft of poetry. Ulysses faces a mountain of problems while on his journey back from Troy. Some of the problems are created by Gods to test the character and strength of Ulysses. The poem Odyssey is intensely subjective and bears the catharsis of poetic subjectivity.

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The Cult

Vladimir Brodinsky was writing a report in the New York Times on the murder of Professor Ioan Couliano, the Prof. of Religions at the University of Chicago who is famous for the book ‘Eros Magic and Murder in the Renaissance’. Prof. Ioan was shot dead in the bathroom from a bullet sustained on the head. There are various conspiracy theories at work about the murder of the Prof. and they range from him having plotted against the Communist regime in his native country to him having been assassinated by the secret cult called the Signeggmati for having been blunt on the agenda of secret societies. The police and the FBI remain clueless about the murder. He sighed after finishing the last letter on the keyboard. Yes, he was loyal to the cult and he contemplated that a brilliant mind had to be put to sleep. After that he gave an enigmatic smile.

Epiphanies of a Torn Galaxy

Money and Fame in an Acrostic.
M—Music
O—Of
N—Necessity
E— Earth’s
Y—Yoke

F—Finding
A—About
M –Mysterious
E—Eccentricity

Epiphany
Saw a yellow winged fairy floating in the air, dancing in psychedelic delight, showing off a magnificent opera of flight…dazzling me with a catharsis of sound echoing in colors, tuning into my mirth, a joyful song of love, a brilliant fusion of music, a soul of jazz, an epic poem, a beauty of passion, a nirvana so tranquil.
Saw flames of fire like tongues of music …they were swaying like many letters of the alphabet…I cast my eyes like a seer on them …I am drowned in their rich lyrical intimacy…they evoke in me a passionate ecstasy…is God devout speaking through the flames…the flames are a prophet of light …a diviner’s objet d’ art….

Dawn
Dawn opened her colored veils—
The sun is echoing a dream. The sky is a poetic Metaphor; clouds are melodious lakes—there, a crater is opening—
Lava is pouring crimson—Bards are gliding
Gently as Aesthetic sculptures—
I am a poet at heart; I am a bard of lyric’s
soul.

Dusk’s a floating Opera …orange hues
are soaked petals and linger as a
painter scattering a hazy abstract…
Time’s music of mediation…I am fond of Nature …It’s a metaphor of solitude…
My lover for her awakens like a dove…
Would have loved an evening with her…
Love echoes the evening as a poem …

Beloved
Darling dear beloved …you are love’s passionate echo….let me embrace
you with the sweet nectar of love….
Let me kiss your lips with a lover’s passion….I love you so much, so much as the night’s lovely star …You have become so fond to me…..Be my beloved for the rest of my life.

Dawn
They sky, a delicious poem of colors …
Art’s a spread carpet…chirp chirp, tweet, tweet goes the bards chorusing…morn’s fonts glisten the sky as aesthetic abstracts…
Feelings now are a fruit of joy…she woke me up with sweet words on Skype …morn caresses the soul as beatitude of music …
A poet tunes to the music of morn….writing its lullaby as poetic verses…

Dusk
The sky’s lit oranges …birds float in the sky
as a romantic poem…clouds are a jazz of abstract sculpture …the aroma of dusk
lingers as colorful light…sweet breeze kisses
my cheeks like Buddha in mediation…the sky is breaking into streams, valleys
and hills…I am floating in a dream ….
My eyes melt with joy ….I am sedated in art…Sunset, an ode to a joyful music…
lyrics of the sky live in the textures of love …..

Moon
White ball radiant with mysteries of mystic space…a memory of love emanates from her bosom…she scatters light amongst shadows pale shadows glistening…
she embraces the dark of the sky
as light’s séance of pulchritude …there’s music on her belly …veins of eclectic jazz,
I begin my dark ritual… witches dance in my head like Ghosts from a sunken grave…
a petal on wings strays across the lonely Sky…she echoes dreams from a distant past…ancestors awake from graves and
pour blessings of mirth…clouds glisten with the nectar of light …light falls on trees and fall in pathos of solitude ….I am fading into a dream….a sweet lullaby puts me to sleep.

Moon
Moon’s out …She’s is a lip…Lying scattered
Amongst pink clouds…The sun is fading
A soft idyllic angel…Night appears like
Lover waiting to Bed the nest of ecstasy …
The moon, now echoing a shadow to my thoughts…Still life, beauty is a poem scattered on the sky.

Morn
Art painted the sky/In impressionistic colors I/Have fallen in love/
Dream
She made love to me/in a dream; dear beloved why/did you forsake me/
Morn
Clouds of poems woke/A dream up; soul chimes a song/A catharsis felt/

Morn
Morn woke up adorned/A coat of colors; birds sang like/Bards, a poem’s beauty/

Dawn
Dawn bloomed like a rose/Making the mind to Catharsis/the soul is delighted/

Abstract

The clouds like stained glass/A portrait of nature, ambience/Echo poetic music/

Feelings
My soul burst a cloud/Torrents of rain poured as an/Earth streaming happiness/

Dusk
Evening sky—Stained glass—Like a pale dream—Poetry waltzes On wings as Ballet dancers—Sky opened to me Like a body of a woman—My thoughts are Veiled with the
Colors of the sky—I dream of Bali—
I dream of her love—Want to be nourished—Clouds part as a guitar—
There now, a fierce –Dragon is spitting fire—the sky a song of music to me now.

The Raven
You black poem—you enchanting mystery—saw you with beak open—
Have you tidings for me—you death’s enigma—you fed Elijah in the desert—
My thoughts on you—focused as a poem—
You bring solitude to my hazy broken heart—you are my sunshine in
My darkest winter—you bring out the
Devil of passion in me—Let me pour out
Heart’s angst –Take me to my grave with hearty mirth.

Pussy-Wave
Pussy-wave is an idiomatic metaphor for pacifism, nonviolence and dialogism. Nations should shed spread their fangs of fanaticism and ideologies and should engage in creative dialogism. World should strip war and embrace peace. Religions divide people, politics separate people but the world is one, a great pussy-wave.

 

Rap

Rap music is rhythmic poetry…the beat is Dionysian …music is words in the sex of being …the heart and soul of Rap is black. Rap music heals the colonized and the subjugated wounds of the white oppressors. It’s an expression of angst of the heart. The wounds from the heart flow were melodious poetry. Rap and Jazz are Derrida-Dada-Ised into an art of the novel that is pop-baroque and cubist. Derrida-Dada is an avant-garde style of writings. Tropes are cathartic symphonies. Melodies rapture in words. Time transcends to a trope of cathartic pulchritude. Rhythm and beat, harmony and melody become fictional modes of writing in streams of consciousness.

Morn
Morn woke me with a delicious array of colors. The musical sounds of bards tweet, tweet, chirp, chirp, evoked a Beethoven of cathartic harmony. Morning is a metaphor of happiness. There goes the poets’ prancing in the sky. The sun rose up as a flaming ball of fire. The sun is a mystic seer, a beautiful ornament, a metaphor of luminescence…Poetry incarnates in the soul of the body. Love becomes a song of the mind.

Rain
It poured as the pounding of the hooves of a horse. Pink panties streaked across the sky. The bums of Zeus roared angrily. The earth, wet now, a drenched pussy. A phallus has penetrated the earth and made her wet metaphor of becoming. I am watching the rain like a silent seer. Rain’s rhythms of music are cellos of a mystic. Rain now, pouring and pouring and illuminating my heart.

Pharaoh’s Dream
In the Old Testament we come across Pharaoh who had a dream of seven robust bovines after which seven famished bovines came and ate them up. In the second dream, seven stalks of plump grain were seen after which seven stalks malnourished grain came and ate up the plump grain. As an idiom Pharaoh’s dream means the inability to interpret a dream.
Example: Pharaoh’s dream occurs to most people.

Joseph
Joseph is found in the Old Testament and he refers as idiom to being a successful dream interpreter, a person with moral scruples and person who comes across fortune and position after a time of hardship.
Example: As far as dreams are concerned Freud was a Joseph.
There are at least few people in the world who are Josephs.
If a Joseph happens to me , I am lucky.

Dash Dash Dash Person
A dash dash dash person comes from the Malayalam language and it means a vulgar and despicable person.
Example: He is a dash dash dash person.

Rebecca
Rebecca’s story is found in the Old Testament. She was the wife of Jacob and she overheard the conversation of Jacob telling Esau the eldest son to fetch some good game so that he can to satisfaction and bless him. Rebecca loved Isaac the younger son more. And she asked him to fetch a young goat and cooked it and covered Jacob’s hands with goat’s hair as his father was blind. Jacob ate pleasingly and blessed Isaac. As an idiom Rebecca means a conspiracy.
Example: The 1$ Bill has symbols which point out to a Rebecca.
Cults like the Illuminati, Masons and Bilderberger are Rebeccas of the society.
I am a Rebecca lover.

Black Hole
We all know that a Black Hole is a collapsed remnant of a Star. It’s so dense that even light gets sucked into it. As an idiom it means a depressing situation from which there is no escape.
Example: I don’t want a black hole to happen to me.
The Jews had a Black Hole of a time under the Nazi regime.

Lot’s Daughter
Well all know the story of Lot found in the Old Testament. Lot was Abraham’s nephew. There’s an incident where Lot’s daughters make him drunk and sleep with him in order to get progeny. As an Idiom Lot’s Daughter means incest.
Example: Lot’s Daughter is a taboo in contemporary society.
Lot’s Daughter rarely happens in society.

Pond
Pond is an idiom in Malayalam language and it means messing things up.
Example: Don’t make a pond out of it.
Some people are always making ponds.
Work
Work too is an idiom in Malayalam language and it means a situation where things don’t work properly.
Example: My computer is giving me work.
The car even after being repaired is giving work.

Quarks
Quarks are tiny, tiny particles which form the building blocks of matter. As an idiom Quarks mean: a trifle.
Example: Don’t unsettle your mind with Quarks.
I treated my denial of job in Cambodia as a Quark.

Wavicles
Light consists of waves and particles called wavicles. A Wavicle as an idiom means a surprising, fortunate happening.
Example: When will a Wavicle happen to me?
I will be thrilled if a Wavicle happens to me.

Hot Turkey
Hot Turkey as an idiom means experiencing altered states of consciousness while using drugs.
Example: Hot Turkey is an interesting phenomenon to experience.
After the Hot Turkey wears off, one comes back to reality.

Dopamined
We all know that Dopamine is a neurotransmitter that’s triggers adrenaline. As an idiom it means a force which triggers something.

My body is a brothel of desire. My libido is passionate angel on wings. My mind is a butterfly, a psyche dancing gaily on wings. My feelings are strong rocks of desire. I get saturated when I make love. Love is a passionate aroma, a delicious food. Eroticism is streams of consciousness of a lover. How I long for a kiss and a caress. My wife is totally devoid of love. She has no feelings for me. Yes, I have passionate lover in Bali. How much I long to marry her. I need to visit Bali to see her. I want to utter the song of love on her lips. I want to melt my tongue on her lips and ecstasy her as poetry. Sweet is the poetry of love. Love brings out the poet in me. We are passionate, lyrical and intimate as humans. Oh passion when will you yield to me? When will the harness of abstinence break? When will the chains of my body become an erotic poem? I echo a dream. I am so fond of her, the Balinese woman. When will the rigorous monotony of teaching in a school for a paltry salary end. When can I devote all my days for writing? I long to experience altered states of consciousness with sex, drugs and booze. Consciousness is a flower that blooms. Passion is poetic art. Making love is the consciousness of philosophy in the ritual of making art. I am a body in trouble and pain. I feel so unloved. My wife goes to sleep as a corpse. For her, the fellatio is something dirty. When I be able to satisfy the needs of my body?

Consciousness is an epic river of flowing passion. All philosophers start from the assumption of consciousness but what is consciousness? Is it an art of a poem? Is it the archetype of the soul? Is it a being formed by the collision of atoms? The art of consciousness lies in the exercise of the mind. How can we make consciousness to live in a plethora of art? Writing begins in the art of passion. Writing is a refuge of the soul. Writing is an expression of the libido of the body. Writing frees the body from the shackles of conditioning. What is soul? Is it a poem? From where do we get our conscience? Writing is experiential literature, a form of poetic prose, a diction of tropes, a mosaic of the soul, a deconstruction of forms and genres, a mirror stage of eloquence, a gamble of the mind with words, a syncretic beatitude, a stoic ornament, a decorative hyperbole, a consciousness of beauty. Writing is cubist art, a pastiche of the baroque, a romanticism of irony, a postmodernism of structural tropes. The writer lives his life in art. Writing is the consolation for unsatisfied wishes. Writing is fornication of the pen and adultery of words. Through writing, a writer becomes a rainbow. Sweet are the melody of words, ecstasy is the rhythm of letters. In writing feelings pour out into a beatitude. Writing melodies the art of reflections. Writing is a phallus of art and a cunt of interpretation. My pen becomes a Don Quixote. Writing is a melody of words. The passionate soul loves and lives in the existentialism of words. When can we break free from Camus Myth of the Sisyphus? We can do so by authenticating creativity. We must avoid suicide by all means. We must become a becoming of being. We must be able to transcend race, nationality and culture. My writing is a labial vagina. I have freed the language from Logo-centric discourse. I have made my writing a dialogical vagina. My pen is circumcised into libidinal passion. I am blind to passion and sensitive to reason. That makes my soul a beautiful being. Irony is a literary device that expresses the beauty of being shackled in a cage and yet being able to express ironic freedom. Irony is a metallic bird with wings of frozen glass, ambling in the mind as chaotic anarchy turning the bizarre into a beautiful solitude of cognition. Irony is narcissism of a poisonous sentiment. How do we unveil a writer’s epiphany? An understanding of an epiphany lies in three shades of meaning. At the first level, the meaning is semantic and literal. At the second level there is the consciousness of sentiment and at the third level there is catharsis which I call rapturation of being. Rapturation of being is the highest level of consciousness that being can attain. Through rapturation of being one becomes a soul of love, one becomes a divine object. One experiences a mytho-poetic subjectivity. Art is the essence of life, the gift of passion, the beatitude of poetry. Through art one can transcend the genre of the self. Art is dawn soaked into the beatitude of colors. Art is a conjectural mystery? Art is an idol that we can worship. We can satisfy the meaning of life by the appreciation of beauty. The bitch of sensation is celestialized an angst is resolved into a poetic catharsis. Emotions you have to be gratified in the sensuality of intimacy and passion. Eros is orgasm. Passion makes the soul to live in a brook. Angst is a metaphoric divinity. The plague of angst deprives the soul and narco-piates the body into a frozen relic. Angst is the betrayal of paradise and the feeling of being cast down into hell. Angst has engulfed me like a plague; it metamorphizes my body into Kafkaesque insect. The joyful realism of Hemingway is a karma of the novel. Experiential consciousness has angst to bear …the being becomes poisoned into an Epicurean misfit. Romantic irony, you parody consciousness. When will I able to experience the love of the bed. My wife is a poisonous rose. Sex is a stale metaphor for her. Sometimes, I feel like strangling her along with my bitch mother. I am a writer carrying a hatred for my mother. I work in her school and she does not pay me any salary. She gives me a paltry sum of three dollars every day. I have to meet all my expenses with that. The cunt of a wife threatens me that she will take me to the asylum if I drink. She has done that thrice. The bitch does not even know to make love. How I long to have a quiet drink, relax and writer. The bitch never hugs, caresses or kisses me. I am forced to seek other women for love. I am tender, vulnerable and intimate. My wife trashes my writing as shit. My writing if a shit-hole is opulent art. Arranged marriages stink of a fuck. Arranged marriages are a shit-hole. I like stupid schmuck laid my bloody head and tied the knot. My father was sunk deep in debt and we did not even have a honey moon. Emptying my sperm into her cunt was stale death. She does not do the cunnilingus nor allows me to do the fellatio. All my fucking 47 years of married life, my fucking wife has not been able to have a single orgasm. My fucking wife, a Jesus freak, think she is a saint of God. All fucking nights she prays in tongues and cries in tears. My marriage has been a miserable failure. My marriage makes me tear dust. It makes me curse the sun and moon and God if there’s one. I have so much hatred for my mother and my wife. I curse my father for arranging this marriage.

Narratives of Anu
Anu is my sweet adulterous lover. We met on a dating site. She belongs to Cochin and is from a conservative family. On one Sunday she arranged a rendezvous in her house when her husband was out. I had to wait in a park near her house for a long time. Finally she phoned me. And I knocked, trembling. She opened the door. She wore a red see-through gown through which I could see her pink panties and her pink bra. I felt so much aroused. She told me to have a bath and I closed the bathroom and showered: when I came out: she was lying naked on the bed. Her skin shined like wheat. I went close to her and smelled her: her body smelled like grapes. I kissed her everywhere. Her tongue on mine was a delicacy. I felt for her soft breasts, suckled her nipples with poetic relish. Then I reached for her pubis and I inserted my tongue in her vagina and started sucking her like a playing the flute. I gave her many orgasms. I loved to hear her meaning in ecstasy. By the time I was a rock and I penetrated her deeply. I thrust in her like a mad locomotive. I emptied all my poetry in her. We made love many times. Darling Anu, I love you very much. I thank you so much for the gift of poetry you have given me.
Indonesian Memoirs
I was in Indonesia in 2005, living in Jakarta and Surabaya, working as a teacher. Indonesia is a mix of the East and the West. I relish the clove cigarettes, the grilled fish, the sambal and bebek (duck). If you walk on the road in the night, you can see many prostitutes hanging out. I always felt tempted. But my Christian Protestantism kept me away. I also had a beautiful maid in my apartment. I wanted to fuck her badly. Yet I abstained. There were many of my colleagues, teachers, married and unmarried ones. I could have easily fucked one of them. Yet I did not. I do not know why? I badly needed a fuck at that time. Evenings and nights, I would spend in Varungs (eat-out-shops-on-the-road), drunk, listening to the rhythms of Jazz. Grilled fish is a delicacy in Indonesia. Indonesian fish is available nowhere in the world. I had beautiful time in Indonesia. Indian Jazz and Rock are popular brands of music. Indonesia evolved the writer in me. There was a colleague of mine: Shanti who sold me a computer. She invited me to lunch in her home. When I came to her home, her husband left. Straight away she took me to the bedroom. She started fondling my hands. I like a fucker did not pick the cues. I could have easily fucked her. But I did not. I had dinner and Ieft the place. A strange and psychic incident happened to me. I was asked by the Principal of the school to go and visit the director of communications for the UN in Jakarta for the school day celebrations. I went to his office and had to wait for a while to see him. Soon, I was ushered into his office by his secretary. On his table I witnessed the strangest thing. It was an African, Shamanic, Voodoo doll. The doll had the strangest, mystic and occult experience on her face. The doll’s face was sly mockery. The doll continues to haunt me in my dreams. Yes, truth is stranger than fiction. Once I was in an internet café which had apartments above. A sexy woman came close to me and brushed my body and then looked at me with a smile and went up. I like a fool did not realize that she wanted to have poetry with me. There goes a failed attempt. At that time I had a significant other, a Filipino woman much older than me. I used to fantasize her as a mother-figure. I sent her the airfare to visit me in Jakarta. I was fully boozed when I met her at the airport. We took a cab. All the way while the cab was moving I kissed her. She was whimpering and moaning with passion. Later on we checked into a hotel. We showered together. I drank a bottle of Vodka. Making love to her was like passionate music. We lay on each other like serpents inter-twined. Her pussy was small and tight. I did the cunnilingus on her. She giggled and moaned in delight. I sodomized her behind with my tongue while stroking her cunt. How she loved it. I came in her delicious cunt many times. Oh sweet was the odyssey of passion and it lasted for two long days. I left her back at the airport as a contented person. I would also like to recall another strange thing which happened to me. The school where I was teaching was hosting a party. Drinks were served in plenty. I became completely boozed up. Then in front of the crowd I started sobbing like a child. I completely broke down. The principal of the school came close to me and hugged me. I was stunned and I have no words to express how I felt. I felt that my father was returning to my life. I still don’t know why I broke down in public. I am so grateful to him and consider him in awe; I consider him to be like a father figure. Soon holidays came and I booked a ticket for home. My flight was scheduled for early morning. In the night I became totally drunk. Thanks to my significant other, she gave me a ring very early in the morning and I was not able to miss my flight. Sweet are the experiences of Indonesia for me. I remember them nostalgically. Life has taught me many experiences in Indonesia. My soul, mind and body became a liberated being.
Malaysian Episodes
My Malaysian episodes are related my significant other. While travelling to Malaysia, I took a midnight flight. I was able to meet my significant other and Mr. Lee in the airport. The drive to the Hotel was a long one. During the drive I encountered a dead cow with its skull smashed to smithereens. Later we came to the hotel. Mr. Lee was in a state of confusion as to whether he should pull me to his room or hers. She with an urgent tug of my arm pulled me into her room. She is such a clean thing. She washes her pussy with tooth lotion. Straight away we undressed and became flowers of kisses. I bloomed her sacred petals to many ecstasies of poetry. She was so conscious of getting pregnant and washed her cunt thoroughly after intercourse. We visited the twin towers and it was an awesome site. The towers lay like gigantic phalluses. The twin towers are rich in Masonic symbolism. Felt my adrenaline rush, when I climbed on the speed-lift which took me right to the top. Watching vehicles and people moving on the road was like watching ants crawl. Felt awed by the rich architecture of space. Later on went back to the hotel again made love. Her cunt was tight and my penis insertion was gorgeous. My single say with her was a passionate experience. I became a soul of a poem. For dinner we went to Korean restaurant. Beef was served on aromatic leaves wrapped cozily.

Dusk
Dusk is awakening like streams of consciousness. A poem of orange has lit the sky. Light seeps into the room with mystic passion. Angels are floating in the sky. Light is an opera lit on the stage of luminescence. I am caught up in a song of poetry. Love pervades my soul. Evening is an aesthetic sculpture. Evening is a music of colors. I watch the sun hide behind a veil of clouds.

Psyche
I watch psyche ballet on wings of brown; she floats gently as an idyllic poem; there’s a depth of the soul, a beauty of literature in her. I saw her when I was thinking of my trip to Bali to meet my beloved. Perhaps she will get me a windfall. When I am in joy, I am not in irony. I get a passion of the small things in life. I am no sex-beast; I am an intimate human, sensitive, vulnerable and lyrical. There she is now perched on the wall like a soul in sleep. Psyche brings out the beauty in me. I am in lyrical harmony, in inner solitude. Nature is the most precious gift that God offers. Her life though short-lived, she offers the human an ode of joy. The spirit is moved to incarnations of ethereal beauty. She is gorgeous melancholy. Yes, watching her all my worldly desires plunge into the sea. I feel so emotionally gratified. She lifts my soul from the abyss of angst. The ego melts as ink. Art is processual ontology where the being transforms from being to Un-being. Art is a philosophy of life.

Failed Meta-Narratives
Communism, Nazism, Fascism and now Jihadism are all grand narratives that have shackled, and have caused much pain and suffering, anguish and death to humans. What caused these grand writers to originate? The Stalinist purges in Russia are a reminder of human cruelty to be a gulag of poison. Marx anticipated the coming of an egalitarian society. But contemporary societies are veering to capitalism. Workers are not poor people in rich capitalist countries. What caused Hitler with his grand narrative of the supremacy of the Aryan race and the persecution of the Jews? Hatred is a phallic complex in psychoanalytic language. Hatred for the other is psychosis of culture. Yes, Hitler’s phallic hatred for his father is a root problem. Mussolini is another figure of hatred and vendetta. Are the cruel terms imposed by the treaty of Versailles adding a fuel to fire and people accept dictatorships. Another ugly fang in this contemporary world is Jihadism. Jihadis are poisoning the Middle East. They also indulge in violence in Western democracies. Jihadis have a violent father figure who promises treasures in heaven for their atrocious deeds on earth. When will the world become democracies of peace and dialogues? When will the greed to accumulate and make arms end? When will a just, peaceful and egalitarian society be established? These are not utopian ideals but a tangible reality.

A Writer
When someone asks me what my profession is, I am ashamed to say that I am a writer. I am content to say that I am teacher by profession. Should I writer be commercially accomplished. I am not fond of who-done-its, thrillers, crime and science fiction. Writing for me is searching the heart and manipulating the mind into an art of existence. Tropes fascinate me so much. Tropes are engineered by the genius of creativity. Yes, metaphors and metonymies make a novel an aesthetic artifact. Writing philosophical fiction is a passion for me. Philosophers are estheticians.

Some Hyperboles
I am an exaggerated novel. Contemplation of beauty is to be God. Sin was cleansed by the blood on the cross. Gratify the ID, deify the Ego and subvert the Super Ego and that’s a postmodern philosophy of Epicurean life. One has to subvert the super ego to a creative anarchy. A poem is a ritual of God. Sexual minorities—the state needs to anesthetize you in a ritual of existence. Philosophy is madness of passion and harmony of reason. When will my individuality triumph? Soul, you are a brook of joy. Lust is a yielding temptation. Sin, you have been forgiven the moment you are done. My mind is a cloud of frozen intellect. Sade, you are music murdering a person. Libido is an eclectic butterfly of tropes. Time is an electric sausage copulating with the metaphors of lust. My soul is freedom’s passion.

Hindutva in India
With the landslide winning of the BJP in India Hindutva is rearing its ugly tentacles. BJP wants to saffronize India into a Hindu country. The cow for them is a Holy God. The BJP is persecuting minorities. Christians and Muslims suffer the brunt. BJP is following an oppressive politics. Is Hinduism a religion of tolerance? The answer to it is a big no in Modern India. Christians and Muslims are regarded as second grade citizens. I can’t be a Hindu as I don’t worship idols. How can God be anthropo-zoomorphic? Our ridiculous Prime Minister claims that plastic surgery was practiced in ancient India. How can I sprinkle incense before an idol? Hinduism in modern India is a degraded commodity. Its poisonous teeth extinguish Muslims and Christians. The Prime Minister of India is a Hindu fundamentalist. Be a man and read the Bible. Hinduism has 33 million idol Gods. The RSS the militant wing of the BJP is on a warpath against Christians and Muslims. Even if my head is beheaded, I won’t worship an idol God.

 

Rhythms of Dionysus

Let me introduce myself—myself, I hail from Kerala, God’s Own Country, a land of mythic temples, tranquil backwaters, aromatic gardens of tea and spices. Legend has it that when I was born, I pissed on to the cassock of the priest. My tryst with iconoclasm began than. I am interested in transforming the novel into a work of art which I call in my own words as a new avant-gardist genre: Philosophical Fiction. The fiction resembles the Cubist Paintings of Picasso, incorporates the rhythms of Jazz and is a hotchpotch of the Baroque fused into the narrative of the Pastiche. There is no storytelling and no plot structure.

 
Bard on wings, floating gaily in the air, you are mystic of poetry. There now, you perch on a leaf. Your wings are yellow and swell with cathartic beauty. Existentialism swallows you in words. You have become an art of being. You float in poetic verses. You are an incarnation of the soul, a beatitude of love. There now you waltz in the air, like a classical symphony. You are the art of passion, a musical whisper, a song of love. I am charmed, enthralled by your mystic beauty. Time slows down into a poem. You evoke an inner beauty of love.

 
What am I? I am a philosophical being, an ontological entity in processual ontology. What is consciousness? Le subjectivity reign supreme. Karma and reincarnation: blah blah blah. Love is poetic passion. Her lips were the wine of poetry. She passioned like the flame of the forest. Nihilism I admire you. Being lives is affirmation, negation, celebration, possession and orgasm. I licked her lips and transformed her into a flower of being. She became a Goddess of love for me.
Pulp fiction, you are a dirty metaphor. Living is passion, a metaphoric beauty. I love the time found in a flower. Blues and Etta Baker, you are soul of rhythm. Your melody pierces the veins like a rainbow. Time the shadow of an eclipse. Veins of orange light seep into my bedroom. Time becomes a poetic metaphor. Beauty and love flow through my soul. God I have sinned much. You have to forgive me. I need to go to Bali and meet my loved one and I long to make sweet poetry to her. Consciousness is a hyperbolic metaphor.

 
Sweet are the temptations of lust, adultery and fornication. A passionate body is the soul of poetry. Yes, I have gone through the abyss like the suffering of Job. God parted the Red Sea for me to escape. I owe my father a lot for him introducing me to art, philosophy and culture. I have benefited by the huge collection of books.
What is the writing of a novel? A novel is a work of art. The pen leaves the self. My soul is a fictional poem. Words are a beatitude of metaphors. Time becomes an eclectic fusion in streams of consciousness.

 
The petals of the flame of the forest lie like a red carpet on the ground. It reminds me of an impressionistic canvas. Time is a tranquil poem of sight. I enjoy a visual phantasmagoria. My feelings awaken like poetry. My mind is in the poetry of catharsis. Love awakens my soul. My soul is a beatitude of becoming.

 
Dawn started moving with the lovers communing. Colors nuzzling fawns, surging tourbillion, glowing passion. Eternity flies as Sadhus in white. Brook of beauty running through, gurgling Moksha all the way through. Swaying pebbles glistening karmic odes, Samsara meanders pilgrimage blues. Beyond mundane life Heraclitus is moving from flux to feeling.

 
What have I done to myself? I have to be kind to my soul. Why should I deny my feelings? I am an exiled epic. Derrida said: to write is to have the passion of origin. Speech is the garden and writing the desert. All my life I have spent in the Orient. Writing is Jazz, writing is the soul of the baroque, writing is streams of consciousness, and writing is art beatified.

 
I am writing in new figure of speech called Muse(a)phor. A mus(a)phor has two related metaphors. Passion is an agile cat. The black cat is a book of superstition. Metaphors are painting the sky. The sky is a halo of God. Religion is a Jihad of poison. Her words were poisonous. Her libidinal poetry rejuvenated my body. Poetry is the soul of existence. Life is a passionate stream of poetry. Poetry is a metaphor of art. Music is time of becoming. Becoming is an ontological metaphor. Colonialism is an ugly fang. Her fang-words bit into my mind. Haiku is the food of art. Art is the body deified. Clove cigarettes are a delicious smoke. Her pubis is a delicacy. My words are ornamental prose and decorative poetry. Ornamentation is the soul of art. Shitting is a pleasurable metaphor. Her cunt is a nymphomaniac-metaphor. Weeds are growing out of my brains. My brain is a choked metaphor. Word sculpts the novel into a poetry of prose. Rodin’s sculpture is an art of poetic prose. Lust is a chain of my body. Chain is a fetish of narcissism. Night’s twinkling eye is a frozen dream. My twinkling dreams will become a reality. Dance is the rhythm of music. The art of writing is a music of the novel. I made her into a moaning melody. The melody of a dream haunted me. I am a voyeur of lesbian poetry. Poetry is a witch holding the moon. A crystal ball is a metaphor of gazing fortune. Fortune is Mammon smiling at me. Oh Music make love to me. Music transports me to the heaven of love. Epicureanism is the way of life. Epicurus, you are the poetry of ecstasy. Freud is a dream. A dream is passion come true. The fruit of ecstasy is love. Ecstasy is dove for the body. Time is an echo of music. Music is poetry of the soul. Love is the seed which Jesus sowed. The seed of the word is a Biblical allegory.

 
I want to recall two strange dreams that I had. In one dream, I see a wild elephant in front of me, very agitated. I soothed it and took to a pack of tame elephants. Soon it settled down. Does the dream indicate libidinal conflict? Yes it does. In another dream I see a sea of eyes and a ship of blind people standing on the deck with their hands outstretched? What is the symbolic meaning of this dream? Is there a calling on me to preach the Gospel of Christ? I don’t know.

 
Jan 13th 2018
The day has been one of contemplation about how to write a new novel of art encompassing philosophical fiction. I long for some weed to awaken my consciousness. Weed has become so scarce thanks to the vigilantism of cops. Dope sellers don’t trust me and so they don’t give me weed. My lover in Bali, a Hindu, who practices yoga and meditation sent me some photographs. She is so sensual, so passionate, so bubbling with romance. Yes, I long to travel to Bali and make love to her. I long to smoke the clove coated cigarettes of Indonesia. I long to eat the tasty grilled fish. Oh Lord make it a happening. Yes, I am tired of work: would love to settle down probably in a hill station of India and spend the rest of my life in writing. Would love to win the First Prize of 6 Crores of Christmas Bumper offered by the Kerala State. I am tired of my nagging wife. I would love to spend the evenings having a quiet drink and chatting with my loved one. Yes, I feel marrying again. May be I will marry the woman from Bali.

 

Jan 11th 2018
The day has been a slow crawl. The only significant thing I saw was a Raven with its beak open. I hope it will bring me good tidings. I have a bloody Indian wife who is emotionally and physically not satisfying me. I long for better times. I need a woman who has a loving heart, a beautiful mind and who can be passionate bed. I think that’s a dream. I have the poverty of luck in dating sites. I wonder why profile does not click. Asian and South East Asian women tolerate blacks. They are colonially prejudiced. I wonder why? My lottery luck has been a bitter fruit. I need money to go to Bali to meet my beloved.

 

Jan 10th 2018
It’s been a while since I wrote a journal. The reason is that I was working on a novelette. After completion, I feel so satisfied. I feel like a poem in love. I have invented a new genre of fiction called Philosophical Fiction. The fiction draws inspiration from the Cubist art of Picasso, from Streams of consciousness in Literature and from Jazz in music. The novel I have titled as Picasso’s famous Guernica. I want to explore the fiction of avant-gardism. Plot means very little to me. The form of storytelling has to change with the contemporary times. Art is the soul of literature and mind is the aesthetic of fiction. My fiction resembles an abstract painting. Though I have not won any lottery I am feeling so happy. I am being loved by woman from Bali. She constantly Skypes me. Yes, I nourish the dream of going to Bali and making poetry with her. When will my wishes get satisfied? With my meager resources, I have been able to publish E-books, thanks to Bookrix my faithful publisher. As an author, I have not been commercially successful. But I am happy and contented that I am writer.

 

Dec 24th 2017
The school annual day Christmas celebrations got over. The program went on very well. Won 2000 Rupees for the lottery draw, spent 1000 Rupees and 1000 Rupees, I donated to the Church. Poems fly in my mind with wings of prose. Was reading the Bible, the chapter: Exodus. Read the story of Moses, the wonderful way in which he was hidden in reed basket and later taken up and adopted by the Pharaoh’s daughter. It’s a coincidence that his own mother was asked to nurse the child. God chose Moses to liberate the Israelites from the Egyptians. God used Moses to create miracles but the Pharaoh’s heart was stubborn and would not yield. Spoke the welcome speech for the school annual day. I would like to post the speech here in this journal.
Distinguished Guests, dear Parents, Staff and Students, I have immense pleasure in welcoming you to this auspicious occasion where the school is celebrating the annual day along with the festivities of the Christmas Season. First of all I would like to enunciate what Christmas begins to me and I begin with an acrostic of Christmas.
C Stands for Christ and it’s from Christ that blessings, grace and mercy flow. Christ came for us to save us from our sins and that’s what makes Christmas a special occasion. May Christ, grant you, peace, love and blessings for the year 2018.
H Stands for happiness. Even during times of difficulties we must be able to lend a cheerful smile. We must be filled with happiness for our families and our loved ones. Happiness also means lending a helping hand to the needy.
R stands for Resistance. When we are faced with life’s temptations and when evil forces try to subdue us we must flee from it. R also stands for repentance. We must learn to repent to God our inequities. Even Christ was tempted by the Devil after his 40 days of fast in the wilderness. So this Christmas let’s learn to resist and repent.
I stands for the Ego and the Self but what Christ says is to lower your ego and humble yourself. One must be servants to others and not masters. We can’t understand God with the I in it. We have to feel the love of his presence.
S Stands for solidarity and solidarity means acting in unison for the welfare of all. Solidarity begins at home and we as fellow family members we should retain the self with solidarity. Solidarity also means engaging in pursuits which benefit the society.
T stands for time there are three types of time clock time, inner time and eternal time. Clock time is all familiar and needs no explanation. Inner time is the time spent with our inner subjectivity. We can spend our inner time in solitude and meditation. We can have fellowship and communion with God. Eternal time is heavenly and it’s the time so that will make us immortal with the presence of God.
M stands for mutualism. Mutualism is an action that will benefit both parties. Our relationship with our fellow beings should be based on the spirit of mutualism and good camaraderie.
A stands for acceptance and should always be in a positive frame of mind and accept our circumstances and transform our lives with our limited opportunities.
S signifies sincerity. We should be sincere in our actions. Our Karma should be such that we seek no reward for our actions.
I hope the love, presence, fellowship, grace and mercy of God Christ be with us all this Christmas and the year 2018.
Next I take the task of welcoming Dr. George Samuel our distinguished chief guest. Dr. George Samuel started his career as a nuclear scientist and later he set his footprints into Christian Evangelism. He is the bestselling author of the famous book: Courage in times of discouragement. The book is autobiographical based on the sufferings that he has encountered in his life. Faith in God and the grace of Christ has enabled him to face all obstacles bravely. Dr. George Samuel is the Director of Value Education Centre and the president of the Navajeevayodyam Bible College. We welcome you heartily to this auspicious occasion.
Next I would like to welcome the Vicar of St. Thomas Church Rev. Dr Abraham Zacharia. Rev. Dr. Abraham Zacharia is a person of scholarly enlightenment. He is going to say reminiscences about our founder the Late Prof. Mathen Bose. Achan we welcome you to this occasion.
Next I would like to welcome the members of the Panchayat. We are so glad to have you in our midst and you are going to make this occasion a memorable one.
Dear Parents you are our backbone of the school. Without your support and encouragement the school cannot progress. We as teachers are proud and devoted to teach your Children. Dear Parents, I extent to you a warm welcome.
I also welcome students, teachers and non teaching staff for this beautiful occasion.
I also welcome the people who are in charge of the sound system, the stage and those who are doing videography.
I dream of visiting Siem Reap and going to the temple of Angor Vat. I hope to get a windfall. Where is the writer in me? A writer lives with his heart and soul. I have started reading the writings of Kurt Vonnegut. I plan to write a commentary on it. My books are exhausted. Need money to buy new ones. Did an interview for an International School in Maldives and I got through. I might join the school in January. I am fond of the Biblical verse: ‘What you sow in tears, you will reap in joy’. Morning was delightful poetry as I listened to chirp and twitter of birds. Dawn woke me up in radiant colors. My soul became a poetic catharsis of harmony.

 

Dec 20th 2017
Exams are over, all the answer scripts corrected and kids happy as I am not a miser when giving marks. The kids are all excited for the coming Christmas and Annual day celebrations. Got a book on Kurt Vonnegut. Wanted to read it but was too lazy. My significant other sent me a video of hers sleeping cozy in bed. My loins started waking up in poetry. She looked so cute. It’s been ages since I have shared the pleasures of the bed with her. Won a lottery prize of 500 Rupees. Had butter Nan and Tandoori Chicken with it. I encountered the sky in its setting in reverie. The sunset was dancing in the clouds of delight. My significant other is a Filipino. She is passionate music. She has encouraged me so much in my writing. I long to be an artist writer. Art is the meaning of my life. Every word that I write is a sheer burst of catharsis. I have to travel, encounter people, places and make love to women and all these experiences will make me a writer. My writer self has to be an evolution of art. Catharsis, what a beautiful word coined by the genius Aristotle. Jazz is a pour of poems in poetic prose. Country music, you arouse words in syncretic , eclectic catharsis. Rock music is a torpedo of words. Bach and Beethoven melody words. Caresses and kisses, I miss so much. I long to be loved like a poem. Music, you are art of the highest heavens. Darling, echo a poem into my body. Nourish me with ecstasy. Time is a divinity etched in a metaphor. The beauty of galaxies is a mirror of metaphors. Darling Mignonette, I have grown so fond of you. I do fondly nourish the way I kissed you at the airport. The kiss still lingers in my mouth as blossomed flowers. The way I melted in your orifices was passion softly flowing as a lake. Darling Mignonette, when will fate allow us to meet again? I long for the music of passion.

 

Dec 16th
Woke late this morning. Don’t know why? My life in this village hamlet proceeds at leisurely pace. The school kids came to the house for the dance practice. I have been given the honor of giving the Welcome Speech for the school day. Saw two yellow butterflies dancing gaily as though they were writing a poetic lyric. It’s my niece’s birthday and I am having Biryani in the night. Thought a lot about Maurice Blanchot the French writer and philosopher. I was fortunate to read his book: the space of literature. The ornament of Literature is put into the stoic space of literary thought. When writing, one must let go off the self and become a freedom self. There is no perfect literature. Literature lies only in degrees of perfection. One has to transcend one’s gender, nationality, race and caste when one is writing. Leave the past, live the present and hope the future. My android conked out and my dear wife was extra generous in buying me a new one. I have taken Maxim Gorky’s short fiction. Wanted to analyze it but did not get the time. Russian writers are passionate ones endowed with the rich soul of writing. Literature if it’s an art has to resemble music as music being the highest forms of all art. I don’t have a paisa in my pocket yet I am the happiest man alive. Bought a lottery ticket with a fancy number 275275. Most days the winning tickets are fancy numbers. The year is soon going to end and a new year will bloom like a flower. What is a writer’s consciousness? A writer begins to see art in all things great and small. A glass for a writer is sculpture, a cistern an aquarium, a bird, a bard on wings. Time speaks to us in our inner consciousness …Time is a horse on wings, a bard, a druid. She has not been contacting me for very long and I wonder why? I hope she is OK, well and fine. I feel so worried about her. I wonder if she has lost interest in me. I keep applying to schools abroad. They ask me to send my resume and I when I do, all I get is a silence. Sometimes I wish, I could retire and spend the rest of my days in solitude and writing. Most of my books are free and I am not interested in monetary benefits. Literature is the food of my life, my daily bread. Sometimes I feel bored with my work as I am teaching English to 6th 7th and 8th graders. Most of the texts though having high flying names like Oxford and Cambridge but are far away from the daily realities of the child. I have taught kids the art of writing essays, the art of making metaphors and I also teach them a new word in the assembly. I love Jazz and I try to incorporate its rhythms into writing. Blog writing has helped me to evolve the writer in me and I am grateful to WordPress and Blogger. What new avant gardism can I put into my writing? What type of writing will evolve after streams of consciousness? Our minds are always in streams of consciousness. We are talking selves. I have to buy a new set of books as my books are all exhausted. I need some money for it. Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo are so passionate so enduring and they echo an artistic symphony. I have read Salvador Dali’s autobiography and I love his ego deification. Art is life, and living a poem, making love is music.

 

 

Dec 14th 2017
Was busy correcting exam scripts. Enjoyed the dawn, the melody of colors cascading as a water fall. Smoked a lot of cigarettes. I am thinking of buying some books as I have exhausted all my collection. I am fond of reading books and interpreting them. I am fond of French, postmodern, post-structural thinkers like Derrida, Foucault, Blanchot, Bataille, Lacan and Barthes. Writing for me is like smoking pot and making love. I am trangressional and confessional in my writing. How much I yearn to win a windfall. Read the Bible. I am fascinated by Joseph’s story. Joseph’s brothers were jealous of him and sold him to the Egyptians. He was appointed as the housekeeper in Potiphar’s household. Potiphar’s wife became enamored with him and asked him to bed with her. He refused and she slandered him to her husband telling him that Joseph wanted to rape her. He was put in jail. In jail he was able interpret dreams. Then Pharaoh had a dream and in the dream he saw seven bovine creatures being devoured by seven famished ones and then he saw seven stalks of stout grain being eaten up seven malnourished ones. No one could interpret the dream and then Joseph was called in and he said to Pharaoh that there will be seven years of plenty on Egypt followed by seven years of famine. So Joseph advised the Pharaoh to stock up for the famine. Joseph was crowned with laurels and he was appointed as a minister. From Joseph’s story I garnered that God has a specific plan for each individual and in God’s time, he will elevate a person. During the famine Joseph’s brothers came to visit him and he embraced them warmly. I am wondering how to write postmodern fiction. Postmodern fiction employs meta-fiction, pastiche, irony and magic-realism in its narrative. My fiction belongs to the realm of philosophical narratives.

 

Dec 11th 2017
It was misty morn…the mist covered the ground like a Druid’s beard. Drank coffee and smoked a lot of cigarettes. Was reading the Book of Genesis: about Jacob’s story. Isaac, Jacob’s Father wanted bless his eldest son Esau and asked him to bring some good game so that he can eat heartily and bless him. Rebecca overheard the conversation and she loved Jacob more and asked him to bring a young goat and made sumptuous meat and she covered Jacob’s hands with goat skin. Esau was hairy and their father Isaac was blind. Jacob blesses Isaac after eating. Jacob is an idiom for deceiver and Rebecca an idiom for conspiracy. Was able to read Kafka: his basic writings. Read his story the Metamorphosis. In the story: Gregor Samsa becomes a gigantic insect and the story reveals the existential angst of a young man. Kafka was a wounded soul: an exiled Jew living in Germany. He had a very strained relationship with his father. I read in Kafka’s biography that he used to frequent brothels and was sincerely ashamed of sex. He had many liaisons with women but in the end did not marry. Kafka’s writing encompasses the philosophy of existentialism. I am thinking of visiting Siem Reap and seeing the Angor Vat. Sometimes I also think of visiting brothels as it will fertilize my mind and my imagination to be a writer. Most of the writers I have read were sexually promiscuous. I hope to get a windfall today as that will fund my trip to Siem Reap.

 

 

Dec 5th 2017
Woke up early …had my usual three cups of coffee, did a work out. Was able to read two books: Stephen Hawking’s: Brief History of time: and the Jaguar Smile by Rushdie. Hawking led me to a strange word of Astrophysics of which I am a layman. I am not convinced by his argument that the universe is expanding. I am became amused by his mention of Quarks, the building blocks of matter. Hawking makes a grand effort to unify astrophysics with quantum theory and the general theory of relativity. The behavior of light particles as waves and particles also amused me. Rushdie’s Nicaraguan journey into politics was a trail blazer. The efforts made by the Sandinista Liberation Front to stabilize the politics and economy of Nicaragua are commendable. American meddling in Nicaragua is a thorn in the rose. Saw a petal on yellow wings dancing gaily on ferns. It became to me a poetic metaphor of thought. Got an offer to teach in Maldives but the consulting firm is asking too much money as charges. So I have ruled out the possibility of going to Maldives.

 

Dec 1st 2017
Woke up early as usual …went to the coffee shop and had three cups of coffee, smoked a lot. I am trying to recollect some of my dreams I have had. Last year I saw a lottery ticket with Santa on it. I am wondering if the dream is a prophetic one. Yes, 2017 Christmas bumper lottery draw is coming and has a huge prize of 6 Crores. Who knows, I might be the lucky person this year. Then I had a dream of an agitated wild elephant coming to me. I comforted it and let it amongst a pack of take elephants. I interpret this dream as my unrestrained libido. Metaphors are feathers lying in the sky. My aim in life is to write philosophical fiction. I have written a novel with the consciousness of seconds. I get joy and peace when I read the Bible. From being an existential atheist I have recouped my faith to Christianity. I always wonder about the meaning in life. Life is passionate living in the art of poetry. Consciousness is a psyche, a ballet of a butterfly. Time is the art of music spent in the living of happy days. One of my passions is to visit Bali. In Bali the cultures of the East and the West fuse. There’s plenty of jazz, poetry and music in Bali. I recall my first visit abroad which was in Hong Kong. I was staying in the YMCA in Kowloon. I started an evening walk and came across an apartment. There stood an old lady who said: ‘come in son, have a drink, I have many beautiful women for you’. At that time I was filled with Christian piety. I ran away from the place. Next morning, again I was walking through the place and I saw the same lady waving incense sticks and performing a ritual. When she saw me sparks flew and she littered me with all kinds of abuses. While in Jakarta I was asked by the principal of the school to go and invite the UN official for the school anniversary. When I went into his office I saw strange voodoo doll all the way from Africa. This doll keeps haunting me every day. There something dark and evil lurking in the face of the doll. While I was in India, working as school teacher, a lady from England arrived on a teacher exchange program. I wrote poetry for her and she paid me 10 pounds. She was eager to bed with me. We took a room in a hotel and she offered my teacher’s whisky. I became drunk but yet I didn’t have the heart to have sex with her. Thinking of the incident now I deeply regret it. When I was Jakarta, I was invited by a lady teacher for dinner. As soon as I came her husband went out. She took me to her bedroom and started talking a lot. I like an idiot did not pick the cue that she was interested in having sex with me. There goes a wonderful opportunity.

 

 

Nov 28th 2017
Woke up early as usual …went to my favorite coffee shop and had three cups of steaming aromatic coffee…smoked a lot of cigarettes. Since exams have begun in school, I was free throughout the day. I spent some time reading Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. I became fascinated with its protagonist Isabel Archer. For an 18th century novel, she is a classic feminist. The male characters in the novel did not impress me much. Blog writing has helped me to discover my style of writing and evolve into a distinctive writer. There’s a Kerala Christmas Bumper lottery draw to be held in Jan and it’s a tidy sum of six crores. Getting a windfall will reduce my penury. I have a bank account with no money in it. I teach in a private school and I am paid a mealy sum. My work of fiction is monumentally experimental. Was able to create a Fiction, called Fictopia; it’s an epic lasting several seconds. I was inspired by James Joyce’s Ulysses in which a life of 12hrs is rendered in epic streams of consciousness narrative. I wonder why followers in twitter are dropping. I had 6 followers and now it’s come down to 4. Sometimes I wonder if I could be a writer at all. My heart and soul are filled with the urge to write. I want to write avant garde innovative fiction. At least I have been able to publish my writings in e-book format. I haven’t put any price for my writing. All I want is my writing to be read. I wish I had the money to retire and devote my whole life to writing. A windfall is a blessing in disguise. I have a personality crises with my writer-self and my real-self. Postmodern philosophies have influenced me profoundly. I long to have a good fuck. My Pentecostal, conservative wife has no time. My wife is not the kind of woman I longed for. Bloody hell, it was an arranged Indian fucked up marriage. I was married when I was 25 and I am 47 now. Till now we haven’t had a quiet moment of togetherness. When I was married, my father with sunken in debt. All the debtors were haranguing in the house. What I don’t get in my wife, I seek in other women and I can’t help it. My wife has never done an oral on me. She dislikes it much and thinks its sodomy. I can’t help calling her a bitch. The cunt does not even does not allow me to drink threatening me that she will take me asylum. The bloody bitch has done that many times. I would not have minded a wife that boozes and smokes and is sophisticated like me. My wife is a country bum, an arch conservative, a fiendish monster. Sometimes I think of divorce but I don’t have money to file the proceedings. I hate her, the fucking bitch.

 

 

Nov 26th 2017
All I day I was writing. I was able to complete an experimental work of fiction called Fictopia. It is an epic lasting several seconds of a character’s life. Joyce wrote the Ulysses chronicling 12 hrs of a man’s life. My work is a miniature epic set on the lines of the avant garde. I felt so happy and refreshed after completing the work. My mind became a smooth vessel. I don’t generic fiction. My fiction is a philosophy of literature. I love the streams of consciousness narrative. Art has to transcend existing styles and become innovative. I am no doubt inspired by many writers, like Kafka, Joyce, Sartre, Blanchot, Bataille, and many others. It’s through blogging that I discovered my own unique style of writing.

 

 

Nov 24th 2107
Sometimes I wonder at my fate … All my academic readings of postmodernism, literature and philosophy are drowned in a sea of waste. My job is to teach 6th 7th and 8th graders basics of the English Language. And I am pretty bored with it. I fed up teaching a class of bucking broncos who end up blabbering and hooting. I sometimes wish that I was in a college, teaching postmodernism and creative writing. All my lotteries are going to a ruin as I am not even able to win a single prize. Read a collection of literary essays. I became fascinated with the feminist philosopher Helene Cixous…she affirmed that women must explore their bodies through writing, break the bonds of phallo-logo-centric writing. Sartre’s essay is raising up the issue that one should not be committed while writing and one must transcend one’s race, gender and nationality. Read Judith Butler and she remarked that gender is bio-cultural construct. Is she paving the way for gayeism? Read an essay on the Babel of interpretations. From it I gleaned that as writers we must interpret interpretations. I also read some essays on post-colonialism. Those essays endorse the view that decolonized writers should challenge the cannons of colonialism. Poets should outpour their libido and their unconscious. Read Calvino’s essay on the right and wrong uses of politics in literature. Literature must challenge political norms and conventions and must transgress the ethos of a political culture. Read Rushdie’s essay on Imaginary Homelands. Rushdie describes the fate of decolonized writers living as expats abroad. How do they express their views about their Mother land? I start my day by reading the Bible and Praying. I am frustrated by my nagging wife. I long for my first love. She broke up with me for a silly reason. While she was in Kerala my hometown, I took a flight to her homeland in Andamans. She wanted me to cancel the ticket. I didn’t. People say that she is no longer alive. She died in an accident. I am so fond of her still and can’t get her out of my mind. I hope that time will heal my wounds. Love, anger, envy, pity, covetousness, lust all these are human emotions and make the existentiality of being humane. We can’t be God nor can we imitate him. We are caught up in earthly flesh, bound up with a consciousness that flitters as a wasp and having soul that is divine as a poem of beauty. I am trying to become intimate with Christ. I am so weak in the flesh and my flesh overpowers me. Sometimes I relapse back into Camus nihilism of angstual nothingness. The responsibility of the self as espoused by Sartre is immense. Why can’t I live a sybarite life, a life deifying the Sartre’s the being-for-it-self? Women and wine let me drench my cup as the Song of Songs of Solomon.

 

 

Nov 20th 2017
Woke up early as usual. Read Camus work the stranger. Was puzzled by the indifference of the characters. Personally I can’t stomach Camus’ existential nihilism. I believe that life is not chaotic and absurd. There’s a purpose and meaning to life. I travelled to Aleppy, the Venice of the East. All through the bus journey, I was gazing at the tranquil backwaters. I saw houseboats floating on the lulling waters as angels. Someday I also wish to hire a houseboat and cruise on the backwaters. Saw a flock ducks melodiously swimming in the waters. The purpose of my going to Aleppy was to buy a lottery ticket. Kerala government is hosting a puja bumper draw with a cash prize of 4 Crores. If I win it, I will have quite a lot of moolah in my hands. I want to buy my cherished SUV Renault Captur. I also want to put some money in fixed deposit that will aid my daughter’s fees in medical school. I also own a school and I want to build a swimming pool in it. I would also love to pay better salaries to the teachers. Had a tiff with my wife. My constantly accuses me of taking dope. It’s been years since I have smoked pot. I remember what Christ has said: ‘ask and you shall receive’ and I also remember the famous quotation on faith: ‘faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen’. I hope that Christ will gift me a lottery bonanza.

 

Nov 19th 2017
I woke up early, listened to Byzantine chants which gave me a feeling of peace. I was able to read three books today: one being Tolstoy’s War and Peace, the other, George Bataille’s Blue of Noon and the last being Julia Kristeva. I was able to write metaphoric commentaries on all those which got published. Adding a feather to one’s cap make go wild with hooting jamboree. Now days my sleep patterns have regularized thanks to prayers to Christ. I have been reading the Bible a lot and I have been able to coin new idioms. I went to Church and attended the function as a devout Christian. I have no regrets in life and I am happy person. I no longer contemplate on Sartre’s and Camus nihilism and the absurdity of life. Life is a gift of pleasant surprises which makes me elated. I also started pondering on a dream which I earlier had. It was a dream of condensation as described by Freud. In the dream I saw an agitated wild elephant. I soothed and it took it to a pack of tame elephants. I interpret the dream as thus: the wild elephant represents my libido and I am putting an arrest to it. I wrote a poem for my significant other and she is quite happy with me. I have a passionate longing to meet my significant other and make love to her like a lyric of poetry. The problem is we are very far off from each other. She is in Philippines and I am in India. I don’t have the money too. I try to live a contented life akin to poetry. I love America a lot especially its philosophy, its gospel, its gospel music, country music and rock of the 70’s and also jazz. I consider myself to be advocate of counter culture and also a proselytized beatnik. When I started reading Leo Tolstoy, I came across his idea of being a Christian anarchist. The idea fascinated me a lot. A Christian anarchist advocates distrust of all institutions of the state and is pacifist. I also consider myself to be a Christian anarchist. I am a hippy, a beatnik, an existentialist and a Christian nihilist. The Bible is a metaphor of life. I thank God Christ for inspiring me to read a contemporary version of the Bible—The Message written by Eugenie Peterson. The Bible has inspired me a lot. I have been able to coin many idioms from it. I thank Christ that I am sustained by his grace. Christ said: don’t worry about anything. Just live for the day. ‘Give us this day our daily bread’. ‘My cup runneth over’. ‘Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life’. The Bible is an aesthetic masterpiece. It contains the ups and downs of many people. I am so happy that Christ is an all embracing, all forgiving God. I am truly inspired.

 

Nov 10th 2017
Woke up and read the Bible. I was amazed by Jacob’s story. I thought of how Jacob deceived his brother Esau. I thought of the years he had to work to earn his wives from Laban. I am reading the Bible—the message. Was able to accomplish the writing of essays. After coming to Christ, I feel very happy and contented in life. Christ gave me a peace that I never knew. I have stopped dabbling in the occult, consulting astrology and psychics. I have no great ambitions but to live every day well and in peace. I have made peace with my wife and mother. I am not disappointed about going to Cambodia. I would have whored and would have got Aids. Was able to read quite a lot of books like Alvin Toffler’s Third Wave, Kaka’s Castle and Derrida’s Grammatology. I love to make interpretations. I am interested in Philosophical novels. I have forsaken the nihilism of existentialists. Life has a purpose, meaning and value. I wonder Sartre stressed on nothingness and nihilism? Perhaps it is the distress cause due to the world. I have started thinking for myself rather than depending on the thoughts of others. I have started reading Dostoevsky’s Idiot. I want to write an interpretative essay on it. I do my regular workouts to keep my body fit. The travel bug is on me. I am fond of visiting the remote island Bali where the East and the West mingle. I teach a new word to kids every day and they really enjoy it. Coming to say I am a fan of American English. I am reading the Bible called the Message. It is written in modern English in an idiomatic style. Had beef curry and barotta from a hotel. Took two lottery tickets. Saw the new SUV Captur brought out by Renault. I have fallen in love with it and I wish to buy one. I went into the Renault showroom and touched my hands on the SUV and asked God Christ to provide me one. The existential nihilist and atheist Sartre while on his death bed became religious. I wonder why? Yes life is not chemical or mechanical. Life is God given and God has given the choice to accept him or to choose your own way. I thank Christ for all what he has done in my life. Christ has made me a new person. I am happy that I have been baptized. Yes, I am also able to speak in tongues. Sometimes, I feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. My body feels like current vibrating through it. God speaks to in my dreams. I now realize that the things of the world are worthless, they are all trash. I live in a small village, yet I am happy and contented. I don’t have much money, only enough to meet my daily expenses. Life is a rich metaphor a tapestry of metonymy. Life is poetry, a catharsis of the sublime self. After leaving astrology and the occult, I feel much better. I praise God, Christ my creator.

 
Anthroposophist
He was an anthroposophist. He came down all the way from Switzerland to visit me. I was his dear friend and I used to write letters frequently to him. We checked into a hotel and he hugged me and then started kissing me. It was at that point of time that I realized he was gay. I told him bluntly that my orientation is straight. He was so keen on having anal intercourse with me. He tried to offer me a bait. ‘Anand, do you realize, what I can do for you in your life? I can offer you sponsorship to Switzerland and offer you a cushy job in the Goetheanium’, the headquarters of the anthroposophy. I politely declined his offer. He was not upset and continued to be a good friend while his sojourn with me in Kerala. Did I make mistake. I could have offered my butt. But then I didn’t. I am not gay. Did I hurt his feelings by not cooperating? I don’t know! I think I did the right thing.

 

The Whore
I and my two friends were out on a beach in Aleppy, the Venice of the east. We went out in the sea and got wet. The waves frolicked in the sea like mermaids. Suddenly we realized that our money was wet. We put it on the ground to dry in the sun. A woman came near to us…then her eyes greedily devoured the money…She gave an inviting, lecherous smile. We being conservative fools shooed her off. Do whores have the instinct to smell money?

 

She
She is my significant other and she is billeted in a grand hotel in Jakarta. She is sleeping on a king size bed. I ruminate on the bed, its quilty softness, its impressionistic colors… I feel sad; I miss her company. I could have made love to her like writing of poetry. I have missed so many chances of being with her.

 

The Killing
I dreamed of killing her for a long time. The pleasure of killing brought to me a great deal of sadistic satisfaction. I wondered of the ways in which I could kill her. I brought a knife from the market and polished it. Its end was sharp and gleamed like a crystal in the sun. Then I thought of strangling her. One clasp of her neck and break it into two. How pleased I was! Then I thought of poisoning her. She takes a glass of milk in the night and so I thought of putting some poison into it. In the end I killed her. She was only a mosquito that sat on my hand. Deed accomplished, I feel very gratified.

 

His Story
He was a colleague of mine, a chief administrator in a school office. He was in his thirties. He has a sad story behind him. His wife ditched him and eloped with another man. He is a Jesus freak. He was looking for a partner to fill the void in his life. By chance he happened to encounter a nurse in the UK who started sending positive vibes to him. She was married but her husband had died. She came from a Pentecostal family. Her mother asked a pastor to pray and find out if the marriage was God willing. He prayed and said ‘no’. I wonder what kind of gift that the pastor has. Isn’t he being cruel and acting as stale fish. I am sure that God will not reveal a plan that will sabotage someone’s life. My colleague became heartbroken. Some pastors are real chains that fetter people’s souls and they have the audacity to call.

 
Why do I w(rite). I don’t know the answer. I have a passionate calling to write. I want to fictionalize my novel into philosophical art. Writing is a chthonic call from the abyss. I look at a newly born flower. Its petals are gently swaying in the wind. Its petals float like poetry. There’s the music of Jazz in it. Writing frees my soul. My mind lives in streams of consciousness, in fictional music. Time is floating on wings. Dawn woke me up with sensual array of colors. They sky lay like a cunt. How I would love to flower Arsini’s cunt? Arsini is my lover from Bali.

 
I would like to recall a childhood incident of mine. One day my mother was bathing in the toilet. The doors had crevasses. I started peeping on her. Suddenly someone clasped me on my shoulder. I froze and turned back. It was my father. He started roaring with laughter. I became so embarrassed.

 
My uncle passed away. After his burial we went to his apartment to collect his things. I, my father and brother-in-law were present. I was standing near the kitchen. It started raining and rain seeped in through the open door. An image formed in the puddle of water. To my surprise it was my dead uncle’s image. I called my cousin to verify. This is a psychic experience that I had. I discovered that there is more in life than rationality.
Anu was married woman in her thirties. We met on a dating site. She invited me to her apartment. We kissed like flowers of poetry. On that day to my surprise, I wasn’t able to get an erection. She did fellatio on me and it was a beautiful experience. I did the cunnilingus on her but she was not able to achieve orgasm. This is a strange sexual experience that I had.

 
I underwent Pentecostal baptism. It was an enaction of a metaphoric drama. To die with Christ, to be buried with Christ and resurrect with him was a unique metaphor for me. I am fascinated by Tolstoy’s philosophy of Christian anarchism. Yes, I also consider myself to be a Christian anarchist.

 
I remember my first experience of love with my college mate Sheeba. She was the most beautiful girl in college. Our first date was watching a movie. She put her palms in mine and my whole body started tingling. We kissed! Wow! It was flowers for me. Then we tongue kissed. He tongue was a sweet delicacy of music in my mouth. I felt her breasts; the gentle mount of skin. Her nipples were jutting out. I sucked her nipples and she moaned in passion. The thing that I regret so much in my life was that she broke away from me. I don’t know why? It was a damn silly reason. While she was holidaying in Kerala I flew to her island: Port Blair. She asked me to cancel her ticket and come to her. I did not. It was for this silly reason that she broke up with me. When I visited her home, I went to her bathroom. On the rack lay her panties. I took it in my hands with passion. Observing it I saw menstrual smudges. I became overcome with passion. I kissed it and licked it with ardent passion of a poet. I have heard from a friend that she died in an accident. Oh Darling Sheeba may your soul rest in peace. Darling Sheeba, you constantly appear in my dreams. I am so sad that you did not forgive me.

 
Writing is the freeing of imagination. Imagination is Kafkaesque. Sometimes when I wake up, I feel like a gigantic insect found in Kafka’s metamorphosis. My writing is a sinful garden. What is the consciousness of a writer? A writer lives in streams of consciousness. I am fond of the writer Gertrude Stein. Art is the living impressionism of words. Consciousness of the writer is in Diaspora. Feelings etch into a painting of words. Character grim and grin in a novel. Writing is the sun stained with the art of impressionistic colors. Writing is a stoic ornament, an experiential sculpture. Though we are condemned as the Sisyphus of Camus’ we can make our lives meaningful by exercising right choices. Consciousness is the being of living in Sartre’s being in itself. Yes Sartre is right when he said: we are condemned to be free. How to evade suicide and live a meaningful life? In writing, the self is an existentialized stream moving to an anarchy of art. Time becomes frozen into the delicacy of words. Jazz is an eclectic fusion, a Diaspora exiled into the words of meaning. Writing is the art of love. Solitude is the essence of life. Writing is aesthetic democracy. Writing is the passion of life. Art is the highest religion that a human can attain. Passion liberates the soul.
I would have loved it if my wife is a lesbian. I would have loved to be a lesbian voyeur. How erotic it is when lesbians embrace each other as poetry in passion. How passionate it is love when they melt in drowned kisses. How beautiful it is when they suck their pussies in 69 position. How beautiful it is when they moan in orgasm. Then it would be good if they do a fellatio on me.

 
Shania: she is a girl. I love her very much. I am too ashamed to say that I love her. Her kisses would be passionate poetry. How I long to embrace her with loving passion. How I long to kiss her in poetic adoration. How I long to melt my tongue in her lake. How I would love to hear her moan in ecstasy. Alas it remains as a dream.
I am poet’s mystic embrace. I am passion succulent. I vibrate in the rhythms of Dionysian prose. Writing is making love to a woman. Writing is a drama of the pen. I know I am not a commercially successful writer. Mystic, passionate, lyrical, confessional, poetic, you are the art of writing. When I write the pen vibrates like a phallus. Fiction of a novel is art in philosophical passion.
To be in solitude of nature is an art of an experiential consciousness. How poetic it is to see bards float in air; it is a consciousness of mysticism. Surreal, secretive, poetic and sensual is their journey through the skies. I love the consciousness of art. It’s a mysticism of poetic consciousness. There I watch a butterfly perch on my shirt. I gently clasp it by its wings and fondle it. I let it fly away. Passion you are an eclectic stream an oeuvre of consciousness. Nature is art’s blues. Nature is the harp of joy. Nature is passion’s beatitude. Gone are the days of realism for the art of the novel. Novel is the art of dialogism. Dreams are recurring metaphors and metonymies. Heidegger said Dasein or being. Being is a process of becoming. Being is processual ontology. One experiences being through affirmation, negation, possession, celebration and orgasm. Being is the consciousness of life. Being is pulchritude of metaphorical depth. Being is a simile of poetry. Being is art’s smile. Religion is the colonialism of the mind. Yes Marx is right when he said that religion is the opium of the masses. Islam should be subverted into a liberal theology. The Quran should be re-written. America should spread the Middle East with Bibles. Socrates became a martyr for democracy. Pulpitude is a new word, a neologism for boredom. It’s a puzzle as to why people are fascinated with who-done-it novels, Fictional factory is commercialized pulp. Art has to transcend genres of fiction. Realism of the novel is a dead flower. Surrealism of the novel is a renegade fossil. Magic realism is escapism of the novel.

 
I am vulnerable and intimate. I live in the poetry of existence. I examine the meaning of life philosophically. I am a glasnost and perestroika of the mind. My mind is an epic of passion. Beauty awakes my soul in the meaning of being. I am charm’s lyric. Where is the beautiful bed of poetry? Orgasm is the ecstasy of being. Her hair smelled like Jasmine. Her body had the scent of cloves. I tuned her to the lyric poetry of being. Nirvana you are an erotic song. Beauty never ends; it has only a beginning. Time is a narcotic of being. The fusion between reason and passion is art in the making. I love the baptism of Christ. When Christ was baptized, God was pleased and dove from heaven entered his body. What a beautiful narrative of art. Christ was right when he said: let your yes be a yes and no a no. Consciousness is the highest form of music. It is a music where the divine merges with God. The purpose in life lies in existential choices. Meaning, you are profound woman. Jazz softens the soul and cleanses the mind. Do not be harsh to yourself. Fantasize, live in the extremity of the consciousness of imagination. Do not make life a complicated mathematical sum. Follow you own wishes to live a meaningful life. I pray that life brings the choices you wish. Be at peace, hope for the future, wish for the best. Alfred Nobel was an idealist. So are the Nobel Prizes. When in doubt, ask your own conscience. Peace is Mahatma Gandhi. Nietzsche you are soul of the human. You went mad by killing God. Sartre, you are the soul and poet of existentialism. Camus makes life into an absurd lyric. Love is the most beautiful of all sentiments. Eros is passionate poetry. Writing is not an oedipal conflict but an oedipal triumph. The soul of the poet is the heart of truth. When will my individuality triumph? When will I rise above petty concerns and trivial matters? When will I get a freedom for the soul that I long for? When will my lover become a passionate bed? Yes, she is waiting for me in Bali. How I long to go and embrace her and make love to her like the music of poetry. I am so far away from her. Every day I wish to win a lottery. But it never happens. My consciousness is a lyrical soul. Rilke you have stimulated the imagination of poetry in me. Job you live in me as existential angst. Christ, in-spite of my sinful nature, I have loved you much. I have lived in an asylum and it was shit-hole of an experience. I want to make love to woman, and have quiet drink. My wants are very limited. I want to devote the rest of my days to writing. Writing is my lover. I am its fruit. I have sown many seeds of writing. One day they will reach a rich harvest of fruits. Yes, I long to be recognized and read. Writing is the fruit of passion—the soul of divine poetry. The self climbs out from the abyss and reaches a plane of the divine. My own family has scant regard for me. They think of me as a mad clown. All this will change when I become recognized as a writer. I have written the self as many characters. I am Don Quixote of many selves. Don Quixote was mad in the 18th century. Today Don Quixote is the triumph of individuality. The 20th century is the one where values collapse, where the self disintegrates, where institutions break down. The only recourse to humanity is art. Art is a romantic tranquilizer. We have to live in the streams of consciousness of art. When will society become egalitarian? When will art triumph as the existence for the soul? When will peace reign supreme? When will the world become a messianic second coming? When will we learn to love our neighbors? When will we have tolerance, dignity and self respect? Art is not escapism but a reality of consciousness. When will the world be broken by narrow fragments fuse into a oneness of democracy and harmony? When will fanaticism become a dead corpse? Art—I have offered my life to you as an earnest devotee. Passion has lived with women I have loved. Destiny, you are careless piece of paper thrown away. I feel nostalgic of the past, creative of the present, and hopeful of the future. 47 Years of my life –I have tried to be creative with the best of my ability. Time will bring out the writer in me. Poetry for me has been a lyrical stream. I am fond of Pound’s and Eliot’s imagism. Coining new tropes for me is like having an orgasm. Futurism for me is adapting and adopting new ways of thinking. I end this novelette with a passionate sigh!

 

Guernica

Art
Art is a consciousness, an altered state of experiencing reality. Schopenhauer has said: ‘all art aspires to the condition of music’. Art in language is a simulacrum of metaphors and metonymies. Art is a symbolic picture, a radiant ostentation, a consciousness of possession. I am a lover of classical music, rock, country, jazz and gospel. Music is pure passion of poetry, an eclectic synchronicity of time, a halo of the mind, a rapture of the soul. It’s through art one becomes the mystic of being. I examine my own consciousness through the state of art. Yes, I have used weed. Weedishness as an altered state of consciousness is a passionate state of mind. I think the highest form of art is sex. Sex is the poetry of music, an art of transcendence. I love being a lesbian voyeur. They wound their bodies like poetry. She became she and they melodied as mystic flowers. They became poems of saturation. I adore saintly lesbians. I have created a new philosophy of art called art-cono-clasm from art and iconoclasm. Nietzsche’s philosophy of art is one of pulchritude. For Nietzsche art occurs when the Dionysian and the Apollonian elements merge. The Dionysian aesthetic elements are rhythm, beat, ecstasy and altered states of consciousness. The Apollonian elements are melody and harmony. In sex art occurs; caresses, kisses, hugs, sucking are melodies of harmony. Thrust, cunnilingus and fellatio are Dionysian. Sex is a tantric ritual. Libidinal energies have to merge into the philosophy of becoming. Sex is Beethoven’s sonata. She in Bali is my new found lover. She is a Balineez Hindu. I am fond of writing verses for her. I want to bed with her in sweet ecstasy of the poetry of becoming. Sex is meditation of the highest heaven. It’s a pleasant feeling to have the loins saturated. Sex is music, sex is poetry, and sex is panting. Sex is the fusion of all art forms. I remember fondly how I kissed her at the airport. The memory of the kiss lingers as a flower. It was an old granny who initiated me to sex when I was fifteen. I was so ashamed of sex then. I remember sex with her with fear and trembling. Dope heightens the feeling of sexuality. Then there was my significant other. I have performed the rites of sexuality with her as the flow of seasons. I am wondering whether all writers are womanizers. For art to flourish one must be a passionate womanizer. Ecstasy, you passionate flower of being, you soul of becoming, you gallivant the soul to the consciousness of a poem; I have surrendered to the passions of your wooing. I think of Anu! She is my passionate lover. The way she suckled me like a tender lamb was an odyssey of joy. Anu, you are beatitude of the soul. My journeys of sex are an incomplete book. I remember Sheeba my college lover. It was so beautiful to think how her palm caressed mine. I felt her tender breasts like the music of poetry. I feel sad that I couldn’t get to marry her. This is what I need in a woman, a loving heart, a beautiful mind and a passionate bed. Sex is poetic nirvana, a beatitude of the soul. I think of dear Valery now. She came as a UK exchange teacher program. She was a painter and poet. She badly wanted to have sex with me. At that time my conservative Protestantism would not make me budge. When I was in Hong Kong staying at the YMCA, while I was strolling, I passed through a brothel. The Madam there was standing outside the gate and said in a cajoling tone: ‘son my women are tasty; come in and have a drink’. My Protestantism made me run away from there. Next morning while I was ambling, I noticed her outside the brothel, waving incense sticks and muttering incantations. I was so surprised. Do whores pray to God? Seeing me she shouted loud insults and shooed me off with a broom. I am so surprised by her behavior. I remember nostalgically of the many missed sexual encounters that I have had. Then there was Shanti who was my colleague when I worked in Jakarta. She invited me home for dinner. She took me straight to her bedroom and started fondling me. I like a stupid fool did not pick up the cues. There go another wasted sexual opportunity. Recently I met a woman from Bali on an internet dating site. She is so charming. Yes I long to rush to Bali and make poetry to her. I am so fond of loving many women. Sex is an oeuvre, a passionate music, a crystal of poetry, mytho-poetic art of becoming. Passion is a metaphor for sex. I am fond of the many women who have come into my life. Sex is a metaphor of poetry laced with lyric of love. In India we have Kama the God of music. We have Gandharvans celestial angelic lovers who woo maidens to make love with them. I think the highest form of art is sex. Adultery is passionate poetry. One who has mastered the rites of sex becomes a true philosopher. Oh, music of sex, take me to realms of celestiality, narcissisfy my body to a lava of becoming. I have tasted many fountains and they are as sweet as honey. Sex is erotic, sensual, passionate, musical and vibratory with the rhythms of the body. How I long to go to Bali and make love to her. I want to sprinkle my dew in her verdant grass. I want to kiss her for hours. I want to hold her and embrace her. My body glows with warmth when I think of her. She is a passionate soul. She is my poetry and I write lyrical fonts on her. How sweet must be her hive? I want to immerse my tongue in it and I want to hear her moan in the poetry of ecstasy. Honey I want to come to Bali and meet you. I hope I can win a lottery so that I can come and meet you.

Music
Music is the highest form of existence the soul and heart of heaven. It’s a mystery to ponder as to how did rhythm and melody originate? Music is poetry for the body and lyric for the soul. I am fond of classical music, rock music, gospel, and country and jazz. Classical music opens the celestial food of the heavens. It’s a manna for the soul. The melody of the heavens is harmonious like the twinkle of the stars. Passion sinks deep into the soul and nurtures a lyric for the heart. Classical music is a passionate meditation for the soul. The heart chimes with the weather of love. Music is like making love to a woman. Time echoes a melody of the heart. Bach, Beethoven and Mozart are my favorites. The divine streak of God is found in classical music. Soul becomes mirth of joy. Passion becomes saturated into an oasis of love. God becomes gifted to the soul. Love and peace radiate as monuments of joy. Classical music is a symphony of becoming. Listening to rock music is altogether another experience. Rock music is Nietzsche’s Dionysian rhythm and beat. Hotel California you take me to the abyss of hell. You induce me to experience altered states of consciousness and sex. The body becomes a libidinal beat of a thrust. Rock music has borrowed heavily on metaphors of hell. Consciousness becomes a numb vehicle. The sliding of guitars, the clashing of drums, the reckless oeuvre of the organ and the tinsel cacophony of sound, all awaken a consciousness, a rhapsody to the meaning of life. Cocaine by Eric Clapton is another brilliant piece of art. But it’s all about Cocaine the horse. Smoke on the Water by deep purple makes weeds grow out of brains. Whatever you want by Status Quo plummets the body to a wine of ecstasy. Another favorite of mine is Lynard Skynard. Their mix of country rock and blues levitates the soul to a New-found-land of ecstasy. Sweet Home Alabama, yes, I am longing to come home. Free Bird by Lynard Skynard is a beautiful rendition of art. The song speaks of freedom. It’s an acoustic rendition. Rock music, you are a passionate soul and a vibrant body. Listening to rock music doped makes a music for the soul. Listening to Jazz is altogether another experience. Time slows down and becomes a metaphor of pulchritude. The breeze emanating from the saxophone is pure metaphoric joy. The gentle slide of the guitar is pure joy an art. The body becomes a music of art. Soul transcends into a heavenly realm. Jazz is poetry’s music. How I love it when the Piano in Jazz plays fancy cords; the gentle rhythm of the symbols clanging is music for the body. Jazz slows down the body into a poetry of ecstasy. Listening to country music is nirvana for the soul. Country Roads by John Denver is a melody so moving so rich in the art of moving the art to make love to it. I am transported to the world of art. Let your love flow by Bellamy Brothers is a pathos of rich sentiment. My soul becomes enriched with the lyrics of beauty. The soul incarnates as a flower in country music. Beauty chimes in bells of melodies. Country music touches the heart and soul. Music moves the soul to a pulchritude. The rich sentiment of poetry is pierces the soul into an art while listening to country music. Listening to Gospel is a poetic epiphany. I love Allan Jackson’s country Gospel especially his songs: Are you washed in the blood, I will fly away, Amazing Grace, and the Old Rugged Cross. His voice is rich in the cadence of art. Gospel songs speak straight to the soul. There’s an art of vibrant beauty. Passion builds the heart of richness. The soul becomes a heaven of beauty a lyric of passionate edification. Music the art of the heavens, the lyric of the soul, the harmony of God, the passion of art, the richness of poetry, the time of passion. Music moves the body to dance. Music makes the heart to sing. Music makes the mind to flutter like a butterfly. Time in music becomes a pulchritude of beauty. Music is the soul of love, the passion of love. How did melody and rhythm originate? It’s a mystery to contemplate. Jazz is the music of solitude. Rock music is the heaven of joy. Country music uplifts the soul. Gospel music speaks the love of God. Music, you are catharsis for the soul. You are beatific in the ethos of passion. Music is the soul of love, the edifice of beauty, the transcendence to a beauty of existence. God is the presence of art in music. We can pour our tears of sorrow and our tears of joy in music. Music is the poetry of ecstasy. Music is the flower of radiant beauty. All art should aspire to the condition of music. Music awakens the passions that lie deep in the soul. Music makes love to the body. Music makes the savage, a beautiful being for God. Deep is my passion for music. The strum of the guitar, the sliding of the cello in harmony, the clang of drums, the bellow of the saxophone all render in me countless joys of experience. I become edified lava. Music you rhythmic passion, you bliss of the soul, you harmony of metaphors, you epiphanies of love, you murmur the heart to an idyllic beat. Music, I sink into your passion, I meditate on your effulgence. My soul becomes cathartic, a poetry of becoming a song. Music hurls me to heaven and removes the bitterness of hell in me. I leave my ego behind and become one with the soul. Passions raise flags and epitomize emotions to the heaven’s highest realm. In music the soul is not bruised anymore.

Painting

Painting eulogizes a human epic. My interest in painting lies in naturalism, impressionism, surrealism, art-deco and pop-art. Painting is a metaphor of human symbolism. It’s an aesthetic music of metaphors in colors. From naturalism I would like to take Davinci’s Mona Liza and David by Michelangelo. Mona Liza’s smile is an enchanted heaven, mystic, silent, flowing with the lyric of poetry. The charm of the smile is art hidden in mystic canopy of musical pastures. Contemplating the smile arouses the beauty of thought—its enigma a mystery to fathom. Mona Liza’s smile in postmodern humor is a condom of thought. I am caught up in the rapture of thought. Is Mona Liza’s smile a cunt of thought? Was Davinci painting a cunt on the lips of Mona Liza? Naturalism in art is a dead flower. Art is caught up in the Prometheusainism of deviancy. David—Michelangelo’s sculpture is a nude portrayal of a young man. Was Michelangelo gay? David is a metaphor of nude poetry. Naturalism is the art in mimesis. Impressionism scatters paint as metaphors on the canvas. Impressive are Van Gogh’s and Gauguin’s paintings. The scattering of colors on to the canvas live in the mind as fond memories. Impressionism is the music of painting. I wonder why Van Gogh cut his hear and offer it to a whore. Van Gogh’s letters to his brother Theo are passionate poems. I am fascinated by Gauguin’s: where do we come from and where do we go. Colors are brilliantly smashed on to the canvas. Impressionism is horny poetry. It’s a beatitude of music. Colors are arrayed in the rich poetry of music. Transcendence is God metaphorically posited on the canvas. Surrealism is the rich posture of dream with reality. A poignant portrayal is Dali’s Persistence of Memory being that of melting clocks hanging on trees and on an embryo. The Persistence of Memory is psychoanalytic art. What is the meaning of melting clocks? Melting clocks represent time running in streams of consciousness. The embryo is symbolic of an oedipal fantasy. Are trees frozen phallic sculptures. Dali was an oedipal child and phallic man. Surrealism juxtaposes dream and reality in absurdist naturalism. Another Surrealist painter which fascinated me is Paul Delvaux. He is famous for the painting: The Call of the Night. The painting is a haunting dream of music. Paul Delvaux is famous for portraying nudes. In the Call of the Night barren land is portrayed with frozen skulls. A nude stands over it with lush vegetation growing on her head. She is a young nymph. Is she a virgin being initiated into the rites of sexuality? There is a woman who is older standing in front of a cave holding a light. Her head is veiled. What is she symbolic of? A young woman with bountiful vegetation stands outside facing her. Paul Delvaux’s art, especially the Call of the Night is reminiscent of a lesbian fetish. Do skulls portray dead sperm or the beginnings of menopause? Another Surreal painter which I like is De Chirico. The architecture of space is metaphorically positioned in brilliant, exaggerated nuances of color. Space attains a metaphysical, deified transcendence of luminous conjecture. Another form of art which I am fond of is Picasso’s Cubism. Picasso’s cubist art is poetry in music. Famously liked is the Guernica. It is why I have named this novella Guernica. In the Guernica art attains the epic distortion of a metaphoric pathos. The Guernica is a painting that represented the bombing of the Basque town during World War II. Guernica is a graffiti of art frozen to a relic of a poem. Guernica is abstract music. Another famous painting of Picasso is the Whores of Avignon. In the painting nudes with grotesque faces, sitting and standing in awkward poses are depicted. This art of Picasso can be called as Oedipalization. The cunt and breasts of women are bull of feeling for the machismo. Yes, Picasso had many women in his life and he treated them as door mats. The brush of Picasso was a phallus or penetration into the cunt of the canvas. Picasso was fascinated by Bulls. Bulls for him were a phallic machismo. Bulls for Picasso are phalluses copulating in the ritual of poetry. Picasso’s art depicts violent symbolism, degraded femnity and a distorted architecture. The father figure for Picasso was a castrated phallus. Feminism wounded his psyche. Picasso was a matador of art, a bastard who cubisized human anatomy. Another trend of modernist art was pop art. A famous relic is Marcel Duchamp’s Inverted Urinal. Pop Art fetishized mass art into gloss manipulation of obscene consumerism. Everyday objects, cultural icons became deified objects of aesthetic worship. Pop Are decimated the boundary between high art and low art. Pop Art existentialized mass culture into a pseudo culture of fetish symbolism. I would also like to comment on expressionism in art. Famous is Edward Munch’s Scream. The Scream shows the trauma, the existential angst of a human being. The scream becomes a metaphor of angst. The colors used are dull and pathetic. Scream is a metaphor for a bewildered postmodern society, a society which is an un-being, a society thrown out of the roots of being, and a society where relationships break down. The Scream tells us that we as human beings tend to be chaotic, vulnerable and intimate. Defeat and divisiveness are the Don Quixote metaphors for the triumph of individuality. Humans are prone to passion and mad with reason. Values, institutions and society can’t handle the traumas of existential angst. In the mad search for existence, some humans turn to violence and fanaticism. I would also like to comment of modernist sculpture, Rodin’s sculpture: The Thinker. The thinker is so stiff, a man of frozen mind, a devotee of Nietzsche. Is the mind made with passion for reason? We are thoughts from which cannot escape. Reason has made us mad and passion has made us delirious with ecstasy. When will the chaotic rift between passion and reason end? It will end only when we become better human beings.

Sea
When I think of the sea, my thoughts echo to the novelist Virginia Wolf and her streams of consciousness novel the waves. As a child I was fond of building sand castles. The sea was a fascinating epic of curiosity. When I grew older, the sea became reminiscent of prose in a poetic metaphor. My novel is a written flowing sea. Waves became contemplative and meditative reflections. Grains of sand on the coast lay like the color of Gold. The spume and froth of the sea is a poetry with an attitude of being in a positive frame of mind. Waves you evoke the mind to the heart of contemplation. Your mystic fragrances of salt, your bluish sedation, your passionate sweeping to the coast and then back and forth are all tangos of art. What passion lives in your creation? You echo the sound of music. Your salt of bluishness is the waltz of jazz of a saxophone. I wonder what it was for the Israelites when they walked through the parted Red Sea. Sea talks to me in gentle rhythms of art. The sea is a tsunami of passion. The sea is a haiku of poetry. Waves sometimes they roar in the passion of poetry. The sea is a womb of the woman, housing the earth. What a beatific sight it is, to watch the sun shining as an orange ball on the horizon of the sea. The sea, yes I want to make love to a woman. Folks of Kerala offer libation to the sea in remembrance of their ancestors. The sea is a woman making love to a man. The gentle rhythm of sea breeze, the falling sunset of colors, the gliding of poetry by the birds, the indentations of the bay, the love of being in tune with the sea is a harmony that one can possess. Now I have wet my pants and I put the money into the sun to dry. A horde of whores come by. Their eyes twinkle with greed and ferocity. I watch their ugly glare and shoo them off politely. I have visited Cape Commorin. There’s a rock in the middle of the sea. One has to travel by boat to reach the destination. It is a rock where Vivekanand an Indian mystic-saint used to meditate. That is a place where the three waters of the Arabian Sea, the Bay of Bengal and the Indian Ocean become a confluence. I visited the rock one evening. Waves frolicked on to the rock like poetic jazz. The sun scattered poetry on to the waters of many hues. It was a sacred, mystic and an epiphanic experience. The sea now, a poetry of soul incarnation, a jazz of streams of consciousness, a soul of contemplation. When I think of the sea, it becomes a mystic of poetic beauty. I think of Jesus who walked on the waters and calmed the tempest. The sea is an epic of love. Tuna is poetry for the mind. I remember fondly, the Indonesian grilled fish that I had while in my stint in Indonesia. The aroma was so delicious, the taste so eloquent. I have a woman that loves me in the island of Bali. How I long to travel there and make poetry of love with her. The sea, now talks to me in meditative whispers. When I was in Portblair visiting my beloved her brother-in-law took me on journey through the many islands situated there. The salty breeze wafting through air made every one queasy and many puked. Thanks to my watery sign Pisces, I didn’t suffer from sea sickness. A French woman on the boat was wooing me. Like a fool, I rejected her gestures. I could have easily made love to her. The sea builds an edifice of aesthetic consciousness. The sea now a lyrical ballad, a poetic hymn, an idyllic pasture. I am caught up in the rapture of the sea. The sea, a metaphor of the womb. Each visit to the sea is like the beginning of a new novel. Ernest Hemingway was seaman novelist. Each time I write, I imagine I am traveling to a new sea. Virginia Wolf when I think of you and your waves, I am in the sea of writerly passion. I have loved your waves. If I was living in your times, I would have made love to you. James Joyce has also written about the sea. The sea is a voyage of time. Tasting a cunt is like tasting sea water. I want to wade into the sea of passion. The sea is a Homer who pelts out epics. Man conquered the sea and colonized nations. Now the sea is being decolonized in democracies. The storms raging in the mind are also a metaphoric sea. Sometimes I wish I was born as a whale. The sea is an abstract painting, an impressionistic landscape. It’s pleasant sight to watch children playing on the sea shore, building sand castles. I cast all my wishes and dreams into the sea and there I get a big fish of luck. Jesus asked his disciples to fetch a coin from the fish mouth and that was how he paid taxes. Thus we have the maxim: give unto Caesar what is his and give unto me what is mine. From the fish mouth is an idiom of a lucky happening. I hope it happens to all fortunate souls. How I wish that I could live near the sea side and spend the rest of my days with a loving passionate woman. Woman what I seek in you? I seek the sea in you. The sea is your kind heart, your beautiful mind, a soul cook and a passionate bed. There you are, you are the sea, and you are the woman of my imagination. I voyaged into the sea as an emotional epic. The sea, you are the rapturation of being. The sea, you are a celestial epic.

Philosophies which have moved me

I start right from Socrates. Socrates said: know thy self. That’s a deep philosophical question. I ask Socrates what can be known of the self. In the postmodern world, we as humans are a disintegrated and chaotic self. Yes there is no man on earth wiser than Socrates. Despite Athens being a democracy, Socrates was condemned to death by drinking hemlock. Socrates is democracy’s martyr. He had the stoic courage to take his death with light-hearted mirth. I say to Socrates: the self knows it knows not. Next I contemplate on Plato. I am moved by his theory of forms. I would like to recall Plato’s allegory of the cave. There is a dark cave situated by men. There is wall and from the wall emanates a bright spark of light. The allegory is used to reveal the theory of forms. For Plato there’s an ideal world beyond the existing world. Plato’s theory posits a metaphysical transcendence. Plato’s theory foreshadows the beginnings of Christianity. Plato’s ideal world of forms exists in art, in philosophy, in poetry and in music. In all these we are transformed into another realm of being. Platonism is ideated metaphysics of aesthetics. Next, I would like to take up dialectics. Dialectics as a discourse began in ancient Greece where a dense series questions and answers will finally lead to truth. We know that today there is no ideal truth but truth is language is a series of metaphors and metonymies. Dialectics has become Dialogical after Bakthin. A dialogical novel is prose wrapped up in poetry. During the time of the Philosopher Hegel, dialectics underwent a new turn. For him dialectics was a thesis, then an antithesis and finally a synthesis. How can we explain dialectics as an aesthetic? Writing the novel begins as thesis, addition of tropes becomes an antithesis and in the final stage the novel becomes an art, a synthesis. How can dialectics be explained in the political context? After World War II, the nation of Israel was created and Palestinians evicted from their own home, an antithesis and struggle for a homeland a synthesis. The World needs peace not pieces. Again during the time of Marx, dialectics took a U-turn and Marx synthesized dialectics with materialism. Material forces which work in society create its institutions. Materialism in its vulgarity has dehumanized the soul. But Marxism is a failed God. Entertainment today does not illuminate the intellect nor edifies the soul. We have become passive spectators of crass entertainment. Next I would like to move on to the great heavy weight of literature: Jean Paul Sartre. For Sartre, being becomes proselytized into an art of becoming. The Being for itself is an internalization of poetic subjectivity. The being projects to an entity of becoming. Being is a mytho-poetic subjectivity. Sartre deserves special mention for his portrayal of angst. Angst is real and experiential and the moral responsibility of angst lies with the self. Angst is not defeated manhood but the celebration of individuality. The celebration of angst makes Quixotic individuality unique. Next I would like to celebrate Albert Camus’ nihilism. I am so fond of his book: The Myth of the Sisyphus. Sisyphus is an art work on the philosophy of nihilism. Sisyphus is condemned by the Gods to roll a boulder all the way uphill only to find that it rolls down again. Camus is purporting the meaninglessness of life. Again existentialism has a panacea: authenticate your life. Optimize the circumstances offered to you. Don’t suicide but offer meaning to life. I move on from Camus to the existential philosopher Heidegger. Heidegger’s Dasein or being can be refined to an ontology of being in processual experientiality. Being or Dasein exists through affirmation, negation, possession and celebration. Next I would like to move on to Derrida the guru of postmodernism. Language for him exists in a binary divide. Terms privilege some and marginalize others. I have coined a new term called Binary fusion where terms attain a deification of neutrality. For example, the term colored encompasses whiteness, blackness and coloredness. Another term for binary fusion will be Hu/wo/man. Interpretation of texts phallification and vaginazation. Clitoral-tricks are fusing texts into an inter-textuality. Next I would like to move on to the modern father of modern linguistics Saussure. For him language is conglomeration of signifiers and signifieds. A signifier belongs to the sensate, tangible visual realm and a signified is an abstract idea. For example if Rose is passion, rose is the signifier and passion the signified. In art especially writing the signifiers and signifieds merge. For example I take a simile: eyes twinkle like stars. In this trope: the signifier and the signified merge into an aesthetic transcendence. Art Derridadaizes the signifier and the signified into a poetry of symbolism. Next I move on to Freud with a new interpretation. A postmodern Freud defies the ID, defies the Ego and transcends the super ego. This is the philosophy of art-cono-clasm derived from art and iconoclasm. Next I would like to portray the psychoanalyst Lacan’s thoughts. For Lacan the unconscious is structured like language. The mirror stage is where we become separated and enter the realm of language. It’s a stage where a being experiences desire and lack. For Lacan there is no stability of the self. The self has to do a tight-rope-walking act between the ID, Ego and Super Ego. The self in postmodern society exists as a chaos, pining for stability. The loss of values, the angst of being, all portray the emergence of an existential crisis. In olden days people had religion and God. After Nietzsche, God is dead. The hopelessness of life is to be encountered with stoic courage and passionate irony. Defeatism is the celebration of angst. The ideal human existence is a state of un-being. I would love to introduce the readers to my own philosophy of post-post modernism called Convenientialism. Convenientialism is the celebration of absurdism. In Convenientialism anything is everything and anything goes with everything. Some of the terms used in convenientializm are Binary fusion, phenomenological ontology, rapturation of being, and demogeocracy, the philosophy of Utilorasy and Bourgeolariat. In Binary fusion terms do not marginalize of privilege anyone; terms are neutral. For example the term human can be binary fused into hu/wo/man. Phenomenological ontology addresses the question of being. Here I introduce a new term and that being Unbeing. In a postmodern society—we have deify the Id, gratify the Ego and subvert the super ego. Rapturation of being is an experience of mytho-poetic subjectivity. Rapture has both celebration and mourning of human experience. A DemoGeoCracy is a world unified, a world that has no walls, no passports, world that is concerned for the caring of the environment. The UN has to play a big role in unifying nations. Next the Philosophy of convenientializm encompasses the economics of Utilorasy and Bourgeolariat. Utlilorasy comes from utility. Bourgeolariat comes from Bourgeoisie and the proletariat. There is only one class of people—the Bourgeolariat. Money should be freed from competent ownership and should attain a democracy of free purchasing power. Eudemonism is possible through the philosophy of convenientializm. Through convenientializm the whole society will be in entelechy.


Love

What is the Philosophy of love? Love in Christian theology has three connotations. Agape is the divine love of God. Philos is the love of one’s own family and friends. Eros is erotic love shared as a passionate bed. To love is to be in the process of art. Love is the poetry of music. Love is the gift of the heart and music for the soul. Love is the divine gift of God. I have experienced Eros through the many women that I have loved and shared their bed. Eros is the elixir of passion. Eros is the nectar of the Gods. Eros is surreal, musical and poetic. When I think of Agape, I think of the unconditional love of Christ. Every drop of blood that he shed on the cross is a lyric to save human existence from sin and bondage. Agape is grace that overflows with the gift of forgiveness. We are freed from the guilt of sin. Agape is the music of heavens. Agape is the echo of the celestial world. Agape is a gift of joy. God incarnated through his son as Christ. When I think of Agape, I think of the love of Christ. Eros is a passionate bed, a sweet poetry of music. I waded on to her lake and she became a flower of ecstasy. Passions live rich in the body. Christianity is so rich in literature and so poetic. I am always experiencing the Agape of Christ. Reason is masculine and passion is feminine. Will passion and reason merge? Can one indulge in sensual pleasures. The Corybantic orgies of ancient Greece have fascinated me. When one thinks of the family one thinks of Philos. I love my wife and children very much. I am so fond of them. And I also love God very much. Christ has also taught us to love our neighbors and our enemies. If the world was saturated with love there would be no need for war and violence. Mahatma Gandhi was an apostle of non-violence. Through non-violence he was able to secure India’s freedom. Love can change even the coldest heart. To be in romantic love is to be in a passionate encounter. Eros, you sea of passion, you poetic music, you gift of the Gods, you typhoon of the body, you lyric of the soul, I succumb to you. Making love is the highest form of art. Passion is a lyric of the soul. Sex is nirvanaing the body. I crave for the love of a passionate woman. Adultery with Anita was pure passion. The joy of experience can’t be described in words. Adultery for me has been a vivid experience. Shame and guilt are poetic metaphors. In love we emerge from a being to a becoming.

Seasons
When I think of the seasons …I think of metaphors, I think of abstract paintings, I think of music. How beautiful it is to have the four seasons, summer, spring, autumn and winter. Spring, Autumn and Winter are my favorite seasons. In spring and Autumn flowers bloom. Spring is a metaphor of poetry. The dance of flowers in the gentle breeze of spring is rhythmic joy. Petals leap in joy. Spring is a metaphoric wellspring of a fountain. The colors of nature are robes adorned by a mystic. Spring is an eclectic fusion of art in impressionism. The melody of spring lies rich in the fruits that grow. Autumn is a time when leaves lie as pale poems on the ground. It’s an art to watch autumn scattered leaves. I am an addict of autumn. I have named my lovers as autumn. Autumn is a rhythmic calypso. The dance of Autumn is nature’s calypso. Seasons are personified poems of nature in love. Winter is a desert of landscape. Snow covers the ground as a woman’s breasts. The ground remains barren. Winter is a motif for death. When I think of winter, I visualize skulls and skeletons. Summer, what a nice season? During summer I sleep outdoors. Summer makes me hot. I keep pouring water all the time. I live in the humid part of Kerala. It’s lovely to cruise along the backwaters of Kerala in summer. Another season that I love is Kerala’s monsoon. I enjoy children making paper boats and floating them in the rain water. I watch a rain-drenched bird as a mystic. Travelling on the backwaters is so much fun. The lush paddy fields are soaked in rain and they evoke the metaphor of a poetry of the earth. I watch a stork drenched in rain scattering its feathers. It’s cathartic to become wet in the rain. All of the monsoon evoked poignant epiphanies. Monsoon Kerala is God’s Own Country.

Notes on some favorite novelists

Kafka is an all time favorite of mine. Kafka is famous for the irony of symbolism. The tropes used in Kafka’s novels are so unique. Kafka’s metamorphosis is an all time favorite read. Kafka was forerunner of existentialism. I recall the protagonist Gregor Samza metamorphizing into a gigantic insect. He becomes the subject of ridicule and loathing for his family. The metamorphosis reflects Kafka’s on inner angst. Kafka was the most troubled writer of the century. He was Jew exiled. The Trial and the Castle are his other prominent works. In the trail a man is charged with a case but he is entirely innocent. Is the trial a symbolic motif a rigid bureaucracy? In the end of the trial we come to know that the authorities slit the throat of the protagonist. Human angst is subject of and a recurring motif in Kafka’s novels. Kafka’s novels are an impressionism of the mind and a surrealism of the body. I am also wonder-struck by the writer known as Gertrude Stein. Her writing celebrates streams of consciousness. Her famous quote is ‘a rose is a rose is a rose’. All of her language is the writings of tropes. Literature has to transcend genres and become more avant-gardist. Literature of today resembles an abstract music, an abstract painting. Plot and storyline are ancient dinosaurs. Another writer who has fascinated me is Maurice Blanchot. I have read his: Space of Literature. He examines the consciousness of a writer. The writer is a self leaving the self. All writing is confessional and autobiographical. One is an artist when one is writing. The pen that writes is the ego in personification. Words are the orgy of the pen. Writing is a fetish of ornamental aesthetics. A writer is no one but many selves. Genres of writing include realism, surrealism and the modern novel which includes a writing in streams of consciousness. What is the philosophy of fiction? Avant gardism has to make fiction an abstract work. The story is a dead relic. James Joyce in the Ulysses wrote in streams of consciousness, an epic covering a man’s day of life of twelve hours. Realism of the novel is a dead stone. Borges was skilled in the craft of magic realism and Henry Miller to the art of surrealism. Plotting a novel is as old as Hieroglyphics. The novel is a work of art an abstract painting. My writing bears traces of jazz and cubism. My writing is metaphoric and inter-textual. Next writer that I would like to take up in my dialogue is Nathalie Sarraute. She is famous for her avant-gardist writing. She invented tropisms, a device to record mental stimuli that passed on in the mind. Joyce recorded 12 hrs of a person’s life as an epic. I have chronicled a novel bearing seconds in a person’s life. A novel is a labyrinth of thought. A novel is a textual harp. Avant-gardism has to create newer and newer tendencies of writing. Fiction is philosophical art. A novelist has to live his or her life as a novel. This novel belongs to the genre of philosophical fiction, a genre of my own invention. Philosophical fiction where themes are dialogically discussed where philosophy is dissected with the tool of art. Writing is an art of the selves in multiplicity. I have invented a new figure of speech called the Museaphor. A Museaphor has a primary metaphor and a related secondary metaphor. Let me explain Museaphors with some examples. Dusk lies saturated as a cunt. The cunt is a musical stream. Word is a phallic Logos. Writing is the Logos of penetration. Palestine is a volcano. She is a hot volcano. Making love to her was like writing. Writing is passion found in the pen. She lay with me like a lyric poem. Sunset is a lyric poem. Music is the art of making love. Poetry is the art of life. Life is roses in a blessing and thorns as a curse. I am surrounded by an ocean of thoughts. God’s love is deep as the ocean. Art: you are a stoic ornament. Trump’s diplomacy is a stoic ornament. I fondle a cunt like stroking a guitar. Acoustic guitar is a music that soothes the senses. Picasso’s paintings are phallic metaphors. The symbolism of the phallus is related to the writing of the word. My mind exploded like a tsunami. The financial markets are recovering from a tsunami. Her scent was that of a flower. He coated a flowery rainbow in his poetry. Poetry is jazz of music. Jazz lives in the soul of the human. Why am I a living novel? The author is the novel. Passion is a tempest of being. Tempests are seen in fanatic Islam. A novel is being written in the book of life. I am fictionalizing myself into the art of Philosophical fiction. My hyper-ego is hypnagogic. Fairies and witches enchanted me when I was young. The irony of life made me stop thinking of fantasy land. What will happen when I die? I am so happy that I can leave a writing that’s immortal. We are vulnerable, intimate and passionate human beings. Humans are incurable sybarites. Humans alternate between Epicureanism and Stoicism. Is there middle path to life as mentioned by Buddha? America imports philosophers and exports Bibles and missiles. Jesus said that you must be child-like to enter the kingdom of Heaven. Passion is a river running deep. Solitude is the irony of existence. Humor is the triumph of life. The meaning of life can be found in a poem. Darling Anita, embrace me my love….let me melt you with kisses of dew. Let me smell the rich fragrance of your body. Let me fondle your breasts like a child. Let me suckle your nipples as sweet poetry. Let me make love to you like a wet morning. Plot of the novel is the pulp of fiction. A character in a novel should have considerable philosophical depth. The interiority of consciousness is the ontology of aesthetic consciousness. Roland Barthes, I am so fond of you, your post-structural assemblage of the sign. May your soul rest in peace. Picasso I am so fond of your cubist art. You have rendered painting into a musical metaphor. My affinity for writing stems from you. Artists and musicians, you have offered me more thoughts on aesthetics than writers. I deconstruct my Indian nativity. I have a white mind, a black soul and a brown body. I am a native of every country. Hellenic Greece you have made me mad with catharsis. Existentialism you have made a nihilist out of me. Deconstruction, and dear Derrida, I celebrate the privilege of the sign you offer me. Dear Shelly and Keats, you have kept the flames of romanticism living in me. My dear departed Father, the late Prof. V A Mathen Bose, you have Hellenized me in philosophies of literature and culture. Every day of my life is romantic poetry. My sentiments are colored in the robes of surrealism. Christ, you are my hero, I admire you so much. I have a faith that is Christian, an existentialism that is nihilistic and postmodern that lies in deconstruction. Interpret meaning embrace art. Noesis entelechy is the essence of life. Passion is a river, a brook murmuring, a sea of depth, a noble soul. I am not running away from time. I am running with time. Birds float in the sky—an idyllic poetry. I am a beatnik of the Orient. I am fond of Beatnik culture. Yes, I want to experiment with drugs, sex and altered states of consciousness. Jethro Tull, your music of the locomotive breath is phallic poetry. I am living in a Voodoo land of consciousness. Time is a whisper now. Kazansaki, how passionately you have written Zorba the Greek. The salmagundi of Catholicism and Hellenism blend rich as a trope or eclectic, cathartic fusion. Life you are the living soul of music. Man’s quest for freedom is the ultimate. There, the statue of liberty winks at me. I wink back in passion. Humanity is one, yet so politically separated. When will the need to show passports and visa end? When will the world become a sanatorium of liberal theology? A protestant theology has to develop in Islam. When will fanaticism, hate and Jihadicide end? We all want a peaceful world, a world united by the yoke of human camaraderie. Peace is the rock of Jesus. When will Allah become kind and benevolent? When will all the people of the world be imbued with the aesthetic of consciousness? Peace I speak to you in the breath of poetry. Yes ‘we shall overcome some day’. When will countries shift discourses to democratic dialogues? When will poverty end? The billions spent on weapons can be used to feed the poor. Yes, the world has to become a better place to live.

Talmud Junkie

The sky lay like textures of a dark vulva colored with the fornication of the dark. I stumble drunk and throw a wooden pentagram and it lies broken with me, quivering me with thoughts of sodomy. Not one bird is echoing a lonely call. All are settled like prostitutes who have been given their wages, settled in their nests with their waste land clients.

I have to swallow the terrible silence of the night. My body feels deprived of earthly flesh. Yes I am fleshy, carnal and expressive. Though I am indulging in the sin of carnality as a deadly knowing vice, yet I am not satiated. I have no money to devour cheap rum of intoxication. I have no cash (money and honey, no money no honey) to devour the torment of sex into voyeurism of prostitutionalized orgy.

Art exposes the nudity of a cracked mirror and a shattered beer mug. I feel my thoughts to be the amalgam of an absurd universe. I feel brothelized by the window of emptiness. I feel the stink of puke and the stench of feces emanating from the broken commode of a clogged bathroom.
I dream of my college lover; she has left me and left her life in an accident. I have tried ouija boarding with her. But her ghost never appears to me. I wish she would haunt me in my dreams, prick my genitals through a séance of bitchiness. I am still feeling passionate about her, the raw meat of her sensual lips, the kissy sweetness of her tongue. How sunny I felt when I fondled her flowery panties. She stopped me there and would allow me to go no further. I wonder why her ghost is adamant to my feelings, wants and wishes. I wonder why I want to scatter my thoughts about her with the scum of cum.
If ambrosia is the nectar of Greek pagan gods for immortality, it can at least be nectarized by the pagans, the heathen, the renegades, the apostates as a panacea of immortalized–immorality. Art has a problem beatitude; every taboo has been transgressed; watching porn is watching a romantic comedy. Taboo has become cliched and transgressions trite, common place everydayness of things; what can be redeemed in Art? Hyperboreanism is nullification. Nihilism is dead. From Thanotos to Thanotos, Eros rebels in the hell of Lucifer. Her shouts are comic psalms viable to be written down as Nirvana watching a blue stocking pull up. Orgasm has pinnacled over kundalini and catharsis and the shakti OM and the blessed hallelujah and orgasm is the very thought, a transgressional structure of over writing, a cross over, a cross symbolism over the word —-to cross. What still emerges is an epiphany, a soluble mammary breast of transgressing tropes.
It rained; spit was onamatopoezing as spit, spit, spit; My teenage was shibbolethized to pout the scripture with awe, reverence and worship.Thus I reminiscence: ” The Lord is my Shepherd”. As I have grown older catechism has been replaced by the veneration of lips—-meta-pussying.I have graced into many pastures as a loving Shepherd. I have observed how the heathen, fleshy pastures churn their soiled juices on my tongue; oh how fruity, meaty and fleshy were them. Oh how the after taste lingers in me like wine pressed from the wine yard.
I found her so unresponsive as a corpse. She was barren as a desert of sexual energy. There were no loving words of companionship no sexual talk. I had to force her to remove her clothing. She would not touch me anywhere. I felt for her breasts, they were voluminous with ripe black nipples. She brushed off my hands with a manna of disgust. I tried to reach out to her soft labyrinth, her labials. She removed my head. I wanted to taste her and give her an orgasm. I tried mounting on her as missionary. With a lot of effort I was able to insert myself into her vagina. First I thrust-ed slowly, then I rammed into her. She told me to stop. I felt so neglected. For her sex is so dirty. I have been living with her for many years and I hate it.
It rained, a mystical outpouring, an epiphany of poetry, like a women’s body outpouring in menstruation; the pads were the earth absorbing the pale blood of fecundity.
She was in late fifties; she was a radical explorer of sex; I found her thanks be to the web; we had so many discussions especially on the art of poetry which we both were fond off. How I remember the way she took me to the bathroom and removed my clothes and scrubbed my body with soap and how we had a sensual bath together. Later on we had a couple of drinks—Chivas Regal and it aroused in us the poetry of hornyness. Though she was old, there was not a blemish or wrinkle on her body; her skin glistened like a baby’s cheek. We embraced each other and shared a kiss which lasted for ages. How sweet it was to taste her liqueur of her tongue. Her breasts were small but she has unusually large nipples. The nipples were risen and taut. I sucked and nibbled her nipples. She kept moaning and mumbling a gibberish of passion. She kneeled on the bed and told me to place my mouth inside her butt. Being drunk, I did it with inebriated relish. I jutted my tongue into the opening of her anus and started to do the analingus. I found her meaty flesh, fresh from the fragrance of bath, tasty. I devoured her butt with eager vitality. While eating her butt, I also inserted my finger into her cunt and started stroking it like a violinist on the cello. Her moaning became louder, more intense, and with animal grunting, she came to an orgasm. But she wanted me again and urged me. “Please enter me with your dick and fuck me hard.” I took the position of a missionary. She with her thighs spread apart like a mountain, received me. Her pussy was very tight and I found it difficult to enter. She took my penis with her fingers and inserted it into her vagina. I thrust-ed with great vigor and she returned my thrust with greater force. With every thrust that I made, she would lift her buttocks upwards and thrust back at me. In these moments of intensity I experienced beauty, passion and art. My soul was lit up with a phenomenology of liquid arabesque. Yes I could feel her vagina becoming wetter and wetter like dew on the carpet of grass. Every penetration she shouted at me hoarsely. “Fuck me harder. Fuck me harder”. At last she started sobbing with happiness. I poured my lava fully into her sacred pussy. We lay in each other’s arms and drifted off to sleep.
I think of her; I dream her; she is Anu; she is a widow in her early forties. She is perfumed with the color of wheatish skin. How much I adore her! How much I wish to have sex with her. I don’t know oh God how to convey my desire. Yes, once she allowed me to brush against her buttocks. I am in a quandary to understand whether her wish is real or not. Yes, I ache very much for her body. How do I obtain her? Yes there is Lord Lucifer, the God of all transgressions. Anita, darling how I wish I could suckle your autumn ripe breasts! How I wish I could pelt my lips on your tender pussy. How I wish I could give you multiple orgasms. How I wish I could like her buttocks and stroke her pleasurable pussy. Oh Anita my darling yield to me.
The sky is curled in orange hues; the evening’s mask of the sun relaxed in an idyll outing; I wish I could pick the hues of orange and feast it as a fruit of lover’s body; I wish I could copulate with the evanescence now disappearing into the dark brothel of the night. The painting of an experience in art is the music, lying in my dream as an orgasmic sigh……a guttural moan that oozes out of a woman’s mouth when she comes……
How prodigal and reckless should I become for the art of the Novel to emerge in the Philosophy of writing. One has to transcend one’s race, culture, religion all the transcendental –signifieds, dump them as Andre Breton picking crumpled paper and writing poetry out of random words. How I wish I could spread words of the Novel on paper, like Jackson Pollock spreading paint on the canvas and painting the autumn rhythm. The writing resembles automatic writing of Breton and action painting of Pollock. Yes, I have been exiled by my GOD and Country to produce the absurd of a surreal life a melting clock in existential hanging. Dali I owe you the Christian apologetics for that. Art is the being’s intifadic tourney to a mental desert. To pick from it in orgies and drunkenness, leitmotifs of body in sacred adultery and fornication of intimacy, to experience nausea with one’s own puke, shit and body fluids, to nirvanaolgize into poems where chthonicity is a libido of transgressions, an anomie of epiphany, a catharsis of transubstantiation, where the sublime is charismatic as a profane, violated, decadent, but yet experienced as crazy art and as the intimacy of being sanctified.
According to Prof. Foucault there is no madness and he means madness as an alienation of a bourgeoisie society. I agree to Foucault in totality and I have to recall to my mind the harsh treatment I was meted out in an asylum run by the Catholic Sisters—-who I call as archetypes of a virgin-whore complex. They are virgins for the Holy Mother Mary and whores for Christ. How they predate and infiltrated me with woebegone Catholic ideology. The whore –virgin complex, the bloody sisterhood of Catholicism force all inmates to attend prayer and service. The fucking whores would read eulogies praising Mother and Virgin Mary and how they plead to her in absolute piety. I wonder of those bloody fucking statues of Mary can fucking weep or fucking listen. These are fucking nuns who rat-hole us in the asylum, cutting us off from all outside communication. There is no internet, no telephone, there’s only a lunatic box which the inmates keep fiddling on to listen to soap channels. Any person with sanity, with just a little intelligence and a little ego would have it battered by these virgin whores. These virgin whores would force the inmates to wear a rosary? What the fuck can a rosary do? Does it fucking cleanse your sin? After the prayers are over the Catholic inmates would give the holy handshake only to themselves. The Catholics are religious racists. I think Catholics stand for brainwashing people and for making money. Yes, the whole institutionalized Catholicism is fucking business. In the asylum, the virgin-whore Sisters would employ sturdy, macho male nurses who will abuse the inmates verbally and physically if they show slightest protest. It’s not a mystery to assume that these virgin whores might be fucking them. Most of these male nurses are uneducated, illiterate and arrogant. They think themselves as Psychiatrists. The psychiatrists are also Catholic Jesus Freaks who when doing duty rounds ask minimal questions like: “how are you?” If we ask him or her, when we will be discharged, they will just nod their heads. There is no personalized counseling in the fucking institution. My experience in this shit-hole makes me hate all Catholic ideology. You bloody nuns having the virgin whore complex—How I would love to hang you up on crosses, lift your frocks and flog your buttocks like Marquis de Sade. What pleasure I would get when you scream in pain. I would then love to masturbate and force you to do the fucking benediction and then laugh in glee and bite your fucking buttocks.
My father figure has been a confusing one. He was a potpourri of being a totalitarian and also a libertarian. I wonder why he became a communist party worker, yet remained tenacious as a diehard preacher Christian—and more puzzling is the fact that he created a capitalist institution, where the workers and owners slog like dogs and earn peanuts. More amazing is the fact that he also became a Hindu too and went for a pilgrimage to Ayappa’s temple in Sabrimala. He became attached to the cult of the Mother Goddess which remained with him throughout his life. Later when he was about to die, he requested his children to bury him next to his mother. A colleague of his told me that he wanted to give his body to his mother who wombed it. What a manifestation of infantile Oedipus complex. Is he a Freudian Child in one sense, a Marxian adolescent in another and a spiritually immature Christian in a different manner and last but not least a Capitalist who tried and failed to make an American dream come true. My father is not a melting pot but a broken pot of a failed American Dream.
The wicker lamps from the Mother Goddess temple were glowing ebulliently; their lustrous glow resembled a finished portrait of a multitude of women showing their cunts; an erect phallus of stone lay at the center of the glowing lamps. The Priestess menstruated on the phallus draping her juices as a liquid petal of roses.
Bloom asked her gently by squeezing her oversized melons; she spread her legs wide offering him entry. She remained cold, indifferent and frigid to his blissful penetrations; at last with a loud knock, he came surging; she rolled over in disgust and lay snoring in sleep. Bloom became depressed and confessional for the Churches he prayed and lustful again for the whores that he had.
Orientation is eroto-heterogenous; that’s why I love straight sex and voyeuristic lesbianism. Mythopeia is a hybrid between dystopia and utopia —-a realm of Ontological being. Hedonism and Materialism are twin tenets of gospel to be enacted in the mind of experience. There is a (demon)stration. Mr. Malaprop spend a w(hole) night in the brothel farting and fucking. Meta-hiss-toricity is a metafur. What is the legion in the art of writing the novel—the legion infiltrates, penetrates and empowers the author to destabilize centers of all meaning. Identity is a contaminated psyche, a (w)rite of (w)itchy meaning. What is the con(Zeus)ness of meaning? It’s just a silly fart to Philistinize the Hellenic grandeur of meaning. There’s a presence in possession—-the devil lived—-and live evil—the Mammon Lucifer. Oh transcendental signified manifest a presence of Spirits in the signifier of the sign. I am an Indian. When it comes to India’s values— morality, purity, reverence, respect, am I happy? Am I contented? I let out a mournful sigh like a howling wolf. Parisians read old texts, decipher and decimate them to become grand intellectuals of new thinking. Existentialism advocates that you have to soak meaning with the authenticity of experience. I affirm, proclaim, liberate and celebrate my Wishes to the existence of a becoming. How I would love to soak a cunt with my tongue and lips. I am a fan of Marquis De Sade; I love him because when he was in jail, he wrote with blood when he had no pen and ink. Sartre was right when he said that a writer has to be free from commitment, institution and canon. Why was Hitler, sexually a masochist and racially a sadist? Women have gratification better with women. They know their bodies well. Indian tradition does a pathetic homicide on aesthetic iconoclasm. WOW! Indian Culture—How amazing? I am dying of it. Jesus was a Freak so are Jesus Freaks. Even though I am born into Christianity, I might die outside of it. • There is a (H) in Hell and heaven. Isn’t that an enigma? When life produced an absurd experience—-I wept, and then I laughed it off, wretched Lucifer! Anthropo-Zoomorphic Gods are so mysterious. They live as idols and are being worshiped. Atheism does not console existence—-meaning finds an irony of being alone. Indian Values—-Am stupefied by their totalitarianism. What an exaggeration to be an Indian. What an incredible humbug. I need to be pious Indian. Yes I can have begging bowl and exist in boredom. The imagery of the Tarot is a sheer gossip of archetypes, an insane, lunatic prescience. I am a sinner— I love being it. Why? How Fascinating? Do I really need forgiveness? Oh I see! If am reincarnated, the silly mumbo jumbo, I would love to be born as a swine in my next birth. Cut me Halal, cook and eat me deliciously. I wonder why Buddha never smiled after he attained enlightenment. Where is Allah? Here There. Up or down. Come on I am teasing myself. The Quran is a text that was humanly created. I wonder why texts create God. Oh Mother! Oh Amma! You are a pious charlatan. You are a darling of devotees. How strange a plot that has no mystery? Socrates proclaimed: “Know thy self” Isn’t that a metaphysical lie! Yoga—Oh my God, there’s pain in the body. I chant the mantra OM, the cosmic, ethereal sound. How deprived I feel of earthly existence. You are a woman….yes yes I penetrate you, but also love to soak you with flesh! Heaven has no air and that’s why I can’t live in it. Once a choice is exercised, the will has to exert an effort! Taboo! You are religion’s mournful whore!
Passion is more beautiful than reason. How do I Derridadainize my nativity into existential deconstruction? America is transforming from a melting pot into a racial pot. Gender and Sexuality can become subjective deconstructions of poetry. China is a paradox of Communistic coterie and free market Economics. Freud wrote his sexuality centered on the Phallus. Women are deconstructing it with labialclitoricks. Time is experientializng. The Ego cannot be transcended. Happiness is drunkenness, sex, and drugs. How to balance an existential life of subjectivity between materialism and idealism? India became free on August 14th 1947, but I am still in bondage. I have found the passions of an adulteress more tempting and more fulfilling. Morality, truth and virtue are contempt-contemporanized. If Hinduism had no idols, I would have become its devotee. If Buddhism had no middle path, I would have accepted it. If Christianity had no sin, I would have followed. Lucifer, Satan, Mammon, you deserve to be a God. The glutton is connoisseur of food, sex and wine. Eros prolongs the sexual act unlike animals in copulation. Man—the thanatos, death after an orgasm, it’s a pity that women are multi-orgasmic. My mind is a mental condom absorbing vulvic lubrications.
Freewill loses its freeness once a choice is made. A superstition crossed my path and it was a black cat. It’s difficult to be Platonic with women; of course Mothers, Sisters and Daughters are excluded. A word becomes a wish and then it has to be gratified. I don’t have enough sperm to fill a whole cunt. The sperm of literature is an ecstasy when it spills over a text. Vulvic nights and erection thunders are a literature of imagination. Passion semenizes cultures of a text. I am chanting a mystical mantra: “ohm, oh shit, ohm, oh fuck, ohm oh shit, ohm oh fuck” and then I let out a fart. He was a puddendaologist, laproscopying cunts with an erotic pen. Queer Literature is a lyrical beast. I felt a pleasure in masturbating on a holy rosary. Express the ID, Deify the Ego and Reify the Super Ego. A cunt is a mystery motion in the magic of many texts. Oh Pain, forget my body. Bums, Breasts and Cunts are holy sanctified deities. Is there a religion without a taboo? A free spirit has to live in transgressions. At times I shit with many farts and yet times I am so silent. Sometimes my shit emerges as watery crumbs and sometimes it emerges as Picasso’s cubes. Hey bugger, don’t fart when you fuck. Be polite OK. Analization—buggery, analingus and shitting is a mystical experience. Oh poetic heart, how do I drown my sexuality into a bestial orgy? The profession that I love the most is that of the Gigolo. Ontology or being is a mania to be an exorbitant state of existence. Cum realization has death. The time taken for reincarnation is another erection. Teaching virgins to do passionate poetry is an art, a sincere poetry. A hospital imprisons the body and the mind. When one is disappointed about experience, one can authenticate it with fuck and a fart. Celebrate existence as a joy— as poet does to words.
Oh Psyche, floating on the romantic seductive air—your words are on the wings of poetry. You have seduced the Earth as an angel of flight. Why have you left your charms besieged in your fragile body? Yes, you release beauty as a painting flight. You have left the forsaken body of lust and you have traveled to the air, a heaven now of imagination. Morning rose passively like a dream. The atmosphere was misty and resembled the color of sperm. The body drowns like a corpse unable to find intimacy and camaraderie. I saw the colored cock with its upturned back-feathers mounting on the hen. There was no foreplay, no intimacy, and no sexual remonstrations. There was penetration and orgasm like instant coffee. Everything was over in a second. The newspaper lay outside the gate like soiled underwear due to the slight drizzle outside. The fresh air of the morning chilled my face, sprinkling it as an offered cheek of a brazen slut witch. All the dogs are howling. Is it a sign of death, decay and decadence or is it a sign that the bitches are in heat. I took the holy rosary given to me by the fucking nuns at the asylum. I broke it with one violent tug and I sprinkled urine on its scattered beads, soaking it with the profanity of gratification. How to structuralize language and phenomenologize meaning? The philosophy of Literature at a structural level is one of metaphorization and metonomyzation. The philosophy of Phenomenological Literature is the transgression of culture, religion, race, caste, gender, orientation and above all nation to aesthediasporize existence into an art. Well here again, tropologize the cunt of an Idol, reify and temporalize blessedness into the murk of ambiguity and chaos. Experiment and Experientialize the ID, Deify, Adore and Worship and Indulge the Ego into heterogeneity of art and crumple-cum the Super Ego and reify it as a wasted condom to be flushed away. The Supreme Court of India has (anal)yzed a crude law—the law of immoral traffic. According to this preposterous and dastardly law, its fangs can arrest couple indulging in consensual sex outside the domain of marriage. It’s an irony that the law does not apply to foreigners who come here. Why are they left scot free? I set my gaze on to the shape of Kerala as represented on the map. Kerala —God’s Own Country is really a cuntree, a cunt shaped leafy state hewn out of a mythological blunder when Prasurama threw his axe into a lesbian Arabian sea. Its idyll backwaters sedate the senses and work like a narcotic lulling the body to flow into a vulvical orifice of being. A fairy Godmother is a bitchy archetype—a whore who feigns sexuality with a legion of men. Yes a fairy Godmother is a lesbian with fairies. Fair sex is fairy sex. Mr. Worm Wood Bloom the alter ego from the Anglican, Episcopal, Catholic church, self ordained wants anal(yze) the ism of cuntualism. Cuntualism has many lexicographic bifurcations like cuntualize, cuntuality, and cuntocentric. Wow Logos, I have Derridadadainized your privilege into multifarious cuntualizims. What is the cunto-centric discourse? Let’s cuntsatiate meanings into hetero-labial-architectural dichotomies of feminomanias. Logo-phallic discourses the erect-hood of domination became heterogenized into anal-lingual-cunnilingual trans-copulation of hetero-erotic orientations in labyrinthine possibilities. Phallic bound discourses become submerged in the eclectic stream of cuntextulity, obliterating significances and creating dichotomies of plurivocal meanings. What does cuntextualize mean? Cuntextualize is an erotic edifice of hetero-genders privileging the discourses of the self against theologization of culture, religion, race, caste, sex, nation and gender. What is a cuntree? It’s a poly-erotic nation steeped in the ethos of immorality, guided by artisans where every law is a profanity. Prosperity is fornication and sodomy through the rituals of sado-masochism. What is cuntistronics? It’s polly syllabic with multilateral utterances of oooohs and aaahs the moaning, screaming, crying, and grunting when orgasms occur throughout the world. It’s the politics of protest devoid of moral puritanisms and a revival of carnival used a weapon of non violence against phallo-logo-centered governments enforcing rigid laws for Philistine survival. The memories of Worm Wood Bloom slipped into his austere childhood —the time he spent under the regimen of a tyrant Art Master. For the Art class, we have to leave the class room and file into the art room. The object of display on the table was a bunch of flowers in flowerpot. The Art Master with a huge moustache curling at both ends and a sinister smile ordered the students to copy it into the art notebooks. The Art Master has a long bamboo cane which he used to slap on his pants from time to time. I became petrified by the art master’s menacing posture. I opened the art notebook with trembling hands. I shivered a cosmic shiver and felt my body as though I have been hit by a meteor. Ten minutes before the bell rang —the Art Master bellowed: “hand in your books”. I put my book in the last, hoping that my empty page won’t be detected before the bell rang. But to my consternation, he saw the book and pointed his cane at me. He bellowed: “You come here”. Trembling like the earth rumbling, I went near to the table in which he was sitting. He stood up quickly and held my shirt and swung the cane vigorously striking my buttocks with all the force that he could muster. He beat on my buttocks five times. My buttocks felt like it had touched a live flame. Tears overcame me and I wept. The Art Master sneered uttered hoarsely: “Shut up”. My affinity for art lay paralyzed for a long time. It was only when I reached my youth, even though I can’t paint for nuts, I embraced art as an aficionado.
First of all I would like to invite the audience into the construction of the plot. The plot is neither magical, not an intellectual construct. Here I proceed with the plot by the dissection of Political Parties. The saffron political party had no locus standi in the state. The Gandhi’s a political party and the Cheguverain party was competing with each other in this municipality. It was a mouth to neck competition. One can’t wonder who would be the winner. In the course of time, the Gandhi’s adopted a political stratagem. A crude and violent strategy it was. It was a strategy to kill the candidate and win mercy votes by asking the family of the killed kin to stand for elections. This strategy worked. The Gandhi’s as a political party won the oncoming elections. Nobody knew about the perfidious actions of the Gandhi party. Every plot erected in the novel is crap. One can easily dissect the monuments inherent in the creation.
In the desert, I found an oasis that gurgles God. Ms. Young Kadija Muhammad was moaning from reading a text on varied sexual positions. Ms. Old Kadija Muhammad was moaning with labor pains. I have to divorce my wife, stupid, fucking Pentecostal bitch. I want to portray myself as an art exhibit with a candle stuck in my asshole and lit on the outside. What an altar it will, a profane menorah. Trinity can be in hell too, Father, Son and the Demonic Spirit. I see her lighting a candle on the feet of icon Mary. What a silly piety, piety devoid of sex. Immanence can be closing God in a sign and leading destruction in decipherment. Occult—I have transcended it by the art of living. Art is a parable of the lost sheep. The game of chance, the lottery dissolved my existence. When will real ecstasy happen in the existence of my being? The subaltern Lucifer is a night of ecstasy. I am hiring Lesbian Prostitutes for a night of hetero-poetic excursions. How can I adulterate the temple of the living God with fornication, drunkenness, orgy and blasphemy? God lives in the desert. The pen can thirst for the exodus of finding an oasis. If God can’t be uttered then God can be mournfully accumulated in the pen. God—I utter Diaspora. I am no Moses to purify the mind into an exodus. What a miracle is God—I feel pathetic. If Joseph had committed adultery with Potiphar’s wife, he would have enjoyed it. I need to drown my body in booze and then purify it with indulgent sex. Numbers are numbers, countable, and whoreable as mysticism. Jekyll and Hyde are two facets of every mind. Lucifer was subalternized by Christianity. The scratches in the sky are my turbulent emotions. I saw the bitch running on the road with its tits sagging like elastic. The rosy clouds licked the sky in the evening. Thoughts became a disgusting used condom. Mind sullied itself like a soiled vagina. Nativity of my Christmas is Diaspora in chaos.
Dark clouds of imagination crowded in my agitated and restless loins. The poetry of the body is waiting like flowers wanting to bloom. I can also (anal)yze my perceptions, thoughts and feelings. Passions can be imprisoned in the Super Ego.
I need love and sex; they are fevers I am suffering from. I am a Chinese Dog. I pounce on the horoscope, No! I wag my tail for no reason and I bark for passion. I am silent now in sadness. The Fish Pisces can never sink as it is always swimming. Asstrolegers are fucking asstrolegers. I bounce back my memory to the Mother Goddess sculpture found in Indus valley ruins. Why is the sculpture showing the abundance of breasts and extra large hips? Man is a voyeur to sensational exhibitionism. How can reason be submissive to passion? What is transubstantiation and consubstantiation in Christian theology? How can the Eucharist, the blood and wine become the living body and blood of Christ as enunciated by Catholicism in the doctrine of transubstantiation? Catholicism is a fucked up religion with dogmas of hegemony. How can the bloody Mary a cocktail fucking weep? How can blood drain out of the fucking idol of Mary? Mary was no fucking virgin. She had many children. Why are candles being lit up at the feet of idol Mary? Why not light candle near to her cunt. What about the Lutheran doctrine of consubstantiation that the blood and wine should be taken in memory of Christ? There is no living image of Christ and then how can we visualize a memory of Christ. Was Christ a poem that remained immaculate? We are we housed in the fleshy carnality of a body that can sin and sin and rebel and rebel. The materiality of our bodies makes us susceptible to earthly Faustian ideals. Passion is for the flesh to be celebrated as a Holy Communion, ecstasying into carnivals of libido-poetopieas. Blessed are the possessed for they shall inherit the kingdom of the Earth. Let that be a devilish beatitude. Did Eve have sex with serpent? Yes she did and then she ate the tree, the fruit of knowledge. Why did God hide the wisdom of the tree of knowledge from humans and then told them that it is a taboo to eat of it? Yes the fruit of knowledge is sex and sex and sex. The moment a taboo is created it becomes a bulwark that can have an opposition, which is a cunt that can lasso it and crumple it into a transgression. Why was the tree of life created and then not given to humans to be eaten? In the beginning was the Word, the word was not God; the Word was the letter and the letter was flesh, transcribed into the eurhythmy of meaning and the flesh became meaning to disseminated. Men disseminate meaning by scattering sperm and women being lesbians in the cataclitoral agitations of multi-orgasms. It’s gospel that women should be lesbians and at times offer their cunts for the revival of procreation. When Jesus was walking where God alone knows, he by chance spied on a fig tree. It was copious with leaves and its trunk fat with flesh. But the fig tree disappointed him as it bore no fruit. He became angry and cursed it and then it withered and sunk to the ground in desolation. Why couldn’t Jesus have blessed the tree and command it bear fruit. It’s a puzzling enigma. Why was apostle Paul, blinded by divine rays and struck down upon the ground from the horse he was riding, a Damascene effect created by God to proselytize him into Christianity? Yes Paul was transformed. But what was the effect? Did Paul have the freedom to delve into the freedom of his experiential existential self? He had to forgo all pleasures of the body and experience pain and suffering for translating spirituality, a Christian theology that makes no sense to me even till this day. Why does the Christian God want to own people and subjugate them with moral purity? What is the great reward that one can accumulate after death? Heaven! What an absurdity! One can’t fathom the entirety of the universe and then what is the use of fathoming a God that remains so unfriendly, malignant and mysterious. How can one erase the Christian consciousness from one’s mind? I am trying but my efforts are a stumbling block. When Christian theologians advocate God loves the sinner but not the Sin, all my defenses crumple; I became a vegetable, an empty flesh wanting to repossess meaning to celebrate a carnival. Yes I am a fleshian. I love to indulge in booze, women and food. I am addicted to sin and nothing will me make me change. I am puzzled by the actions of the Biblical Joseph. When Joseph was working in Potiphar’s house, the Pharaoh’s official who bought from captivity, he was allured by Potiphar’s wife to bed with her. He adamantly refused her titillations. Why? It would have been pleasurable for Joseph to learn lessons of sexuality by succumbing to the pleasures of this sensual garden. But Joseph was so enthused with Jehovah karma and refused her seductions. And for that reason he had to suffer. In the end the Bible paints a goody goody picture of him as being given the gift of God to interpret the dreams of Pharaoh and having done so he was transformed into a stature in Egyptian bureaucracy. Instead of being baptized in water, I would indulge in the baptism of myself in whisky. How can one become a holy fucking Ganges of the spirit by being baptized in water? The flesh does not change. The flesh is addicted to the transcendence of poetic subjectivity. The flesh deserves sex and that’s its priority.
I was trying so hard to fornicate the realism of the novel. But my efforts were in vain in the realism of the book shelf. That’s was when I got hold of a cathartic experience. It was so silly, so subaltern, and so gross; it’s when I watched a woman pee through her clothes standing on the side of the bridge. I always wonder why my relatives send me to a penal institution called the asylum. Is it who I am insane or they? I am fucked up in a Matriarchal culture; I am dominated, hegemonized for packets of cigarettes. I have no outlet. But again I think of the woman, why was she ostracized why society. Is it her nirvana of her urinating through her clothes? Goddam fuck! There’s always an answer in this unanswerable universe. Saw the street light falling on the ripples of water in the brook, distorting it and making it look like woman’s vulva. A withered leaf lay on the ground, crumpled, haggard and worn out; it was corpse of being, wanting to decompose into the earth. Love birds, pets of my niece lie imprisoned in a cage, chattering their freedom and protesting release by banging their wings on cages. I would love to be a prodigal Son but I need lottery luck as the Father’s wealth to prodigalize it. When the coins clinked on the floor it became a hearing of money luck. When I shit there’s shitopiea and when I urinate there’s urineopiea. I am porn-racial; I love a pan-porn theology, African, American, Asian and Hispanic. I am shit-chthonic when I feel like shitting but I am not able to shit. The media becomes a corybantic gobbler when there’s happenings especially disasters. Wonder why aviation disasters strike headlines and front pages and so also natural disasters. Rapes are paeans of sexsimilitudes brutally orgicized in the media. The devil is limited in hell but I am not on Earth; I have the right to be in transgressional freedom and also being in the knowing about its consequences.

Dark clouds of imagination crowded in my agitated and restless loins. The poetry of the body is waiting like flowers wanting to bloom. I can also (anal)yze my perceptions, thoughts and feelings. Passions can be imprisoned in the Super Ego.
I need love and sex; they are fevers I am suffering from. I am a Chinese Dog. I pounce on the horoscope, No! I wag my tail for no reason and I bark for passion. I am silent now in sadness. The Fish Pisces can never sink as it is always swimming. Asstrolegers are fucking asstrolegers. I bounce back my memory to the Mother Goddess sculpture found in Indus valley ruins. Why is the sculpture showing the abundance of breasts and extra large hips? Man is a voyeur to sensational exhibitionism. How can reason be submissive to passion? What is transubstantiation and consubstantiation in Christian theology? How can the Eucharist, the blood and wine become the living body and blood of Christ as enunciated by Catholicism in the doctrine of transubstantiation? Catholicism is a fucked up religion with dogmas of hegemony. How can the bloody Mary a cocktail fucking weep? How can blood drain out of the fucking idol of Mary? Mary was no fucking virgin. She had many children. Why are candles being lit up at the feet of idol Mary? Why not light candle near to her cunt. What about the Lutheran doctrine of consubstantiation that the blood and wine should be taken in memory of Christ? There is no living image of Christ and then how can we visualize a memory of Christ. Was Christ a poem that remained immaculate? We are we housed in the fleshy carnality of a body that can sin and sin and rebel and rebel. The materiality of our bodies makes us susceptible to earthly Faustian ideals. Passion is for the flesh to be celebrated as a Holy Communion, ecstasying into carnivals of libido-poetopieas. Blessed are the possessed for they shall inherit the kingdom of the Earth. Let that be a devilish beatitude. Did Eve have sex with serpent? Yes she did and then she ate the tree, the fruit of knowledge. Why did God hide the wisdom of the tree of knowledge from humans and then told them that it is a taboo to eat of it? Yes the fruit of knowledge is sex and sex and sex. The moment a taboo is created it becomes a bulwark that can have an opposition, which is a cunt that can lasso it and crumple it into a transgression. Why was the tree of life created and then not given to humans to be eaten? In the beginning was the Word, the word was not God; the Word was the letter and the letter was flesh, transcribed into the eurhythmy of meaning and the flesh became meaning to disseminated. Men disseminate meaning by scattering sperm and women being lesbians in the cataclitoral agitations of multi-orgasms. It’s gospel that women should be lesbians and at times offer their cunts for the revival of procreation. When Jesus was walking where God alone knows, he by chance spied on a fig tree. It was copious with leaves and its trunk fat with flesh. But the fig tree disappointed him as it bore no fruit. He became angry and cursed it and then it withered and sunk to the ground in desolation. Why couldn’t Jesus have blessed the tree and command it bear fruit. It’s a puzzling enigma. Why was apostle Paul, blinded by divine rays and struck down upon the ground from the horse he was riding, a Damascene effect created by God to proselytize him into Christianity? Yes Paul was transformed. But what was the effect? Did Paul have the freedom to delve into the freedom of his experiential existential self? He had to forgo all pleasures of the body and experience pain and suffering for translating spirituality, a Christian theology that makes no sense to me even till this day. Why does the Christian God want to own people and subjugate them with moral purity? What is the great reward that one can accumulate after death? Heaven! What an absurdity! One can’t fathom the entirety of the universe and then what is the use of fathoming a God that remains so unfriendly, malignant and mysterious. How can one erase the Christian consciousness from one’s mind? I am trying but my efforts are a stumbling block. When Christian theologians advocate God loves the sinner but not the Sin, all my defenses crumple; I became a vegetable, an empty flesh wanting to repossess meaning to celebrate a carnival. Yes I am a fleshian. I love to indulge in booze, women and food. I am addicted to sin and nothing will me make me change. I am puzzled by the actions of the Biblical Joseph. When Joseph was working in Potiphar’s house, the Pharaoh’s official who bought from captivity, he was allured by Potiphar’s wife to bed with her. He adamantly refused her titillations. Why? It would have been pleasurable for Joseph to learn lessons of sexuality by succumbing to the pleasures of this sensual garden. But Joseph was so enthused with Jehovah karma and refused her seductions. And for that reason he had to suffer. In the end the Bible paints a goody goody picture of him as being given the gift of God to interpret the dreams of Pharaoh and having done so he was transformed into a stature in Egyptian bureaucracy. Instead of being baptized in water, I would indulge in the baptism of myself in whisky. How can one become a holy fucking Ganges of the spirit by being baptized in water? The flesh does not change. The flesh is addicted to the transcendence of poetic subjectivity. The flesh deserves sex and that’s its priority. For the nihilism of despair there’s no redeeming Christ. Woe to you Christ—I have my solitude. I am thinking of an absurd God in the absurd Universe. God has a divinism that is opposite to humanism, a cold, unfriendly, malignant, hegemonic, and hateful—an all powering sovereign who palpitates the consciousness to be nullified again as crazy existence. Religion as an experience has culturized me into a pell-mell of boisterous romping of Hellenic Dionysianism, a negative attitude to theology that is stultifying Jehovah-Christianism and an unbelief in all idols that are cultually adored in Hinduism

I was trying so hard to fornicate the realism of the novel. But my efforts were in vain in the realism of the book shelf. That’s was when I got hold of a cathartic experience. It was so silly, so subaltern, and so gross; it’s when I watched a woman pee through her clothes standing on the side of the bridge. I always wonder why my relatives send me to a penal institution called the asylum. Is it who I am insane or they? I am fucked up in a Matriarchal culture; I am dominated, hegemonized for packets of cigarettes. I have no outlet. But again I think of the woman, why was she ostracized why society. Is it her nirvana of her urinating through her clothes? Goddam fuck! There’s always an answer in this unanswerable universe. Saw the street light falling on the ripples of water in the brook, distorting it and making it look like woman’s vulva. A withered leaf lay on the ground, crumpled, haggard and worn out; it was corpse of being, wanting to decompose into the earth. Love birds, pets of my niece lie imprisoned in a cage, chattering their freedom and protesting release by banging their wings on cages. I would love to be a prodigal Son but I need lottery luck as the Father’s wealth to prodigalize it. When the coins clinked on the floor it became a hearing of money luck. When I shit there’s shitopiea and when I urinate there’s urineopiea. I am porn-racial; I love a pan-porn theology, African, American, Asian and Hispanic. I am shit-chthonic when I feel like shitting but I am not able to shit. The media becomes a corybantic gobbler when there’s happenings especially disasters. Wonder why aviation disasters strike headlines and front pages and so also natural disasters. Rapes are paeans of sexsimilitudes brutally orgicized in the media. The devil is limited in hell but I am not on Earth; I have the right to be in transgressional freedom and also being in the knowing about its consequences. The pruned hedges of the garden looked like a half shaved pussy, cleared for entry.
Today the word slut awakened me from a stupor of pandoramatic state; slut shittified into many beads of fragments; slut aroused my body as pornography of being sluttified and I wish that I could be sluttified by many whores speaking in the paganisation of Babel tongues; again the word slut manifested as a verb: slutify, slutfying and a noun slutification; how I desire the poetry of immersing my tongues in a carnival of hiring the hoi polloi whores—right in their cunts and asses. What a feeling of aesthesis would I beget? It would be a feeling of aestheolabialmoaninghearingsyndromeofecstasy.

I have come to hate my mother who has borne me with pangs of labor; after the death of my father, she has assumed the role of a dominating matriarch constantly carping at me even for the flimsiest reasons; she treats me as an employee and does not give me wages for my work but only crumbs to buy cigarettes; she and my fucked up Pentecostal bitch-wife, when they feel fine call studs from the asylum run by fucking Catholic nuns and lock me there from time to time; I am yearning for a life, a decent job which will fling me out of their miasma and give me a fresh breather of life where I can think creatively and write with all my feathers aiming for the flight of passion. I am reverting back to my childhood; one day my mother went into the bathroom and locked it; by chance I went near its door and to my surprise I found tiny gaping crevasses; I peeped and watched my mother bathing nude; my body was galore with funny feelings; yes, I was shocked and loved the pleasure of being a voyeur; suddenly a hand was upon me, on my shoulder; shuddering I turned back and to my shock it was my own father; I became taken aghast; but my liberal father started guffawing and teasingly he said: “so you are watching.” Yes even while lying in his death grave— I cherish his attitude to life and I prostrate it with a lighted candle. My first lessons in pornography were diligently searching porn literature that he hid and read. I used to find them and I use to treasure them. Yes there was poetry in all of them, breasts, cunts and asses are holed up in a garden of positions, all becoming pomegranates of pleasure. Now my whole family has been Pentacostalized and they regard me as fucking insane only fit for being in an asylum,
Saw a yellow face with wings gently kissing the plants, and then passionately kissing the air, an aesthetic of a combined gymnast and an acrobat and then floating as a gay philosopher, transforming my mind into an epiphany. I am traveling in a bus now; the raucous sounds of Tamil film songs emanated from the loud speakers of the bus; it lubricated my ears as a grave. As I was gazing out of the window, by chance I spied upon a fish stall; the smell that flew into my nostrils made my memory into a dirty halo, reminding me of fishy pussies that I have licked and the moaning of women in the throes of an orgasm. Soon the bus entered the Catholic church; I got out and the sight of idol cherubs cast in stone and stooping down made me wonder about positions that I take when I micturate? Why were angelic beings so portrayed in such a condescending position? How do they urinate? Where are there penises? Or are they hermaphroditic? I laughed to myself at this trivial site. Form the sight of these angels, my thoughts reverted to Rodin’s sculpture—The Thinker. I grinned as new thoughts of it flooded to my mind. Why is the thinker so stiff? Is he pissed out? Does he pain in his groin? Does he want to masturbate? Does he have AIDS? The thinker was deconstructed was deconstructed from its aesthetocracy to a conglomeration of mundanity and from there to a mania of revisiting and rethinking his art as a trivial sculpture. By the time the marriage was over, the rich and snobbish started moving in their luxury cars —Audis, Mercs and BMW’s. I felt so worn out and tired by this ostentatious display of newly acquired wealth. My intentions of going to the marriage were two. One was the grandmother of the bride who initiated me into the lessons of sexuality. I did not want to disappoint her. And the other, I thought that I could by chance come across a some woman who would become sexually interested in me. Yes I live a sex starved life and I need the manna of sexual nourishment. I thirsted to have a bottle of rum but I had no cash to buy it. The stars of the night glistened like drops of sperm. I looked into the dustbin; crumpled paper, empty rum bottles and cigarette buds stared at me like a collage of Sartre’s Being and Nothingness. Art became a rite of void and flowed into my veins as nihilism.

Today my mind was cloudy and felt that it was passing through the tunnel of a long, elongated pussy. I was feeling miserable with torn lottery tickets lying by my side. All of a sudden my mind burst into an epiphany. Mind became torn with the torness of the lottery tickets. My thoughts went back to Jackson Pollock’s action painting, especially his autumn rhythm. From Autumn Rhythm I became inspired to create an avant garde Art form called STRIP ART. In one sense STRIP ART stands to be nonsensical in another sense a pun.
Cigarettes
Cigarettes1

A prose of poems, white sperm sprinkled the green orifice of the earth early morn. The air of the Earth whispered as a motion of whirling wind, labialating the petals of the earth in multi-orgasms of earthy delight. Dawn became a celestial orgy of colors, hues of orange and red, a psychedelia of paint plastered on the walls of a brothel. The mongrel Suzy stripped the newspaper to bits out of which a surreal poet could copulate poems. I sang rap into my mouth with remaining half bottle of rum, a cheap proletarian drink, made for the masses by the monopoly government who is out to make quick bucks with the sale of shitty liquor. How I longed to snatch the gold necklace of my bitchy mother and buy with it a new found bottle of freedom. She makes me slog and pays me only a pittance to buy cigarettes. Breasts, Cunts and buts awakened in my mind with a hallucination to be in all orifices like a Cubist painting of Picasso. I thought of masturbating on the idol of Virgin Mary. Again my subconscious started invading my conscious mind and the doctrine of eschatology, the Christian litmus of final judgment and heavenly salvation for the born gain and the saved crept up like thoughtologies, piercing my mind like needles injected for acupressure. It was at this juncture that an innovative hyperbole—a shit cosmically hanging and jangling like the words of the ‘the wall’ from Pink Floyd. I became a swami maverick coining shit and eschatology and shit and ecstasy as shitcatolticalshitstasy—the ontological realm of the art of the body emptying its bowels. The position of Shitting in Occidental and Oriental cultures is different. In the orient, one has to squat on the toilet—a position which strains the muscles of the leg. In this position it becomes a bit difficult to wash the insides of the arse. In the Occident one gets to enjoy the position of shitting—one can sit comfortably on the toilet seat and also if one wants, one can wash the arse thoroughly inside and out. I wonder why cultures have created the art for shitting differently. Again the aesthetics of shitting is prone to many pleasures and angsts. Sometimes shit emerges without a protest from the bowels, c lean cylindrical log that falls plop into the commode. Sometimes it emerges as cubic pieces just like the painting Guernica. And at other times shit is painful experience. One wants to poop and the feeling of shitting is so strong and yet shit does not emerge. This kind shitting without any shit emerging is an angstuality of shitting.

Metaphysics ends an experience to laugh or to be in anguish. To be Platonic is to be an idol of an empty mind. How wonderful if thoughts could satiate into things of experience. All the (w)holes and mounts of a woman, alas I sigh in delight. When will the boundaries of nation, culture, race and law be forged into a Liberopiea. How amazing? I am not able to pick money fallen on the ground. The Medusa should laugh her pussy out. I drink only Kerala’s proletarian rum—Marx, what an awful taste? If only I could be a writer, a dwarf who writes for the freedom of an aesthopiea. The phallus is an irony; from the sacred it has become the law of the Father and then a logo-centric discourse. Irony wombed when wo/man became frustrated with language. Booze, cannabis and women are adultery for me. I am Gauguin’s follower. I leave my home and family for Art. Was Pontius Pilate the best Catholic as he could find no blemish in Christ? Kafka I found in you a great lyric, greater than E=MC2. I can only bless those who have helped me in my hard times. Ms. You have given me money to write a poem for you and now you are a poem for me. Why Christ have you invaded my innermost being and violated the freedom of my subjectivity and sin? Metaphysics and Ontology end in an experience to laugh or to be in anguish. Gold is a whore for me.
Winged art moving time as a glazier—it’s a music delighting eyes, a dance that floats, stunning the silence of eternity. Watching them climb higher and higher, their earthen robes have the precision of a mobile art gallery; standing on the earth, you open an art of experience to me; now you are disappearing from my vision—you have chosen a destiny—a white flame merging as a song of love, your breath now an ethereal whisper. Flock of White birds in winged flight was a woman strapping her bra on her breasts. Orange ball—belly of the Sun, was whore smiling—wooing her client. Becoming Christ like in Christuality negates the poetic lyric of becoming individuality. Lucifer, you are quicksand and it’s tragic that you have wasted hell. The Historical Christ was a real entity. Was his proclamation to be a Spiritual Christ an ego of ambition? I have left Churchianity and I am agnostic. My religion lies in the mysticism of the body, especially eating, drinking, shitting, farting and fucking. Mysticism also awakens when I am in anxiety or experiencing angst. Picasso, you make my mind warped in a brothel of experiential aesthetics. Today, I made a wish in my psyche and by chance or luck, the tides of sea favored my shores. Alas I always exclaim why it’s not happening every day? I stopped reading the tarot and asstrology. They suck in negativity. Dali I enjoyed reading your biography. You are yourself. Old epics are narratives about kings, wars and God’s and Goddesses now an epic is a narrative of bodily sensations. War had a moral in epics—War! What an immorality. When a famous novelist blasts on his website, he is writing a novel, he has an ulterior motive. Are there global citizens— only vanity of sovereign nations boasting. I have forgiven myself! Wow! What a peace? Shalom, you dirty my body. Oh soul! How precarious a vain butterfly you are? When will you house the earthy body? My name is not written in the book of life. I don’t care! I have a book which lives through writing. I eat the fruit of sin every day. Since they have been cast out of Eden there’s no more casting out. The tree of life is a fib invented to overcome death. I am an earthly captive of money, booze and women. Yes I am slave, a Faustian.

In experiencing gratification by imagining, the mind tilts like a windmill towards angst. AIDS –Acquired Islamic Dictatorial Syndrome is a disease which inflicts pain, suffering and death. I hate crowds, thundering speeches and idiotic devotees. The thin/g/k that puzzles me most in Christianity is the Trinity—the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost. How do they exist as one and yet remain as three. And when the Son was on the earth what was happening to the other two entities? Quite baffling it is— there’s no mystery or revelation but plain nonsense. Oh culture is a living religion for the conformist but for the iconoclast it is a rebellion. Here again in Hindusthan the naked swamis are gathering for the Kumbamela festival. Devotees bow meekly and touch the penises of the Swamis in adoration. Some times in India God’s and Goddesses are stolen…idols made in Gold. Golden Gods and Goddesses fetch a tidy sum in the market. The ravens gathered around like witches doing a ceremonial parade around the remains of a dead dog mashed as remnants of pulpy paper. Few of them, carriers of the dead, started pecking eagerly at the open entrails. The decomposed dead yet remain alive. They invade the mind of dreams and create situations that involve the living and themselves. Dead you don’t dream and yet you tap into the unconscious and procreate and permeate it with distortions that appear to the dreamer. I met a scrooge the other day. He was so parsimonious that after removing leftovers of food from his mouth, he puts the toothpick back into his purse. The cluster of bananas lay on the erect trunk of a dick with many oddly shaped balls, almost falling off. Ladoos, yellow Indian sweets, resembling shit balls lay spread on the table. I dreamt of asking her politely: “will you lend me your cunt.” My mind is a treadmill of prose on which I keep on running and sculpting molten lava into a text of poems. The night sky lay glittered with the balls of dwarfs. The sect—I have observed them. They are clad in white. They have mummified the remains of their founder called Appachan. They are a hotchpotch of Hinduism and Christianity and they trace their lineage to their founder called Appachan. Every year in memory of him they block the roads, build arcades of wood on which light settings are set and dance and frenzy. Sometimes I wonder why they have become a religion. They belong to a group of constipated masses, idiotic but reverential to their founder. Now I am travelling in the train. I go to the toilet to pee. On it is scattered ugly graffiti, graffiti without any talent of mastering the brush. It’s a chaos of openings, especially women’s. The cunts and the asses are spread out in noisy display. Also there are depictions of gigantic breasts which would even challenge the figure of the discovered Mother Goddess. I feel pity for India. It’s a repressed country wanting to express sexuality in toilets and wanting to rape women. Rapes are cruel. In one rape, they shoved a broken bottle inside the ass of the woman. She later succumbed to injuries in a Singapore hospital sponsored by the Government. Why are rapes happening in India alone? India has the law of immoral traffic, a law which would enable prosecutors to arrest anyone who is copulating outside the domain of married life. What a shitty law? India is still reeling under the stigma of antiquated British Laws. When will India become free from colonial bondage and nurture an individual to progress, civility and sexual freedom? When I see the hearse, I am thankful for having one more chance. I exploded like a bomb, spilling shit all over the commode. I have to resurrect in meanings every day. Caged meanings, frozen in a dictionary—wake up to my life. A being should live in Literature, Think in Philosophy and Copulate in Art. The withered leaf lay on the ground, crumpled in the stillness of thought. Chance and Luck—what twin bastards are they? Zen in streams of consciousness is divergent, chaotic and nihilistic. When I die, the earth that I have trampled on will embrace me with love. Forgiveness—I have to meet that bitch and fuck her. In consciousness I am a legion of archetypes. I dream of the Witch Bitch Nun Sister who controlled me in my sojourn in the asylum. I see her calves up to which her frock reaches. I would love to hold her cross and fuck her from behind, embracing her shitty asshole as cathartic release of passionate pain which I feel. Saw a dark Satan with green eyes meowmeowing euphorically about hell. It came to me in streams of consciousness—the word Cathartopia. Cathartopia formed from Catharsis and Utopia, is the prose of life in the poetry of meanings. Cathartopia seeks to elevate every existence not merely to the existence of being but to conjunction of the profane and the sublime. Early morning I am a turgid (Dick)ensian and urinate with its turgidity. She is not merely a (w)hole, is she? Here I go again with a (Dick)ensian rhyme…Mockadoodledo do my dick is a fiddle that’s a fit as a fiddle. Mockadoodledo the dame has lost her hole. Pen(dick)ularity is a horny state of literary aesthetics. Today I found her, my student, with a whitish skin and on it hair as a beard. I don’t know why she has not removed it? I felt disgust, and also an erotic desire to bite it off. Whenever he copulates he explodes with a plop in her vagina. She feels an awful repulsion to his doing. His dick is a plop-centric discourse in the hegemony of (Dick)ensian-logo centeredness. Today the remains of a cat run over by an automobile with its entrails all come out came to my vision as red glue sticking out on the road. I am a Hellenic Philistine—a satyr of a satire. If all the people in the World pee at the same time, there would an ocean called Urinoria, much bigger than the Pacific Ocean. The people of Cuntree made a record in Guinness by shitting together and making the tallest tower in the world. Her mother was a mistress whom I used to fuck. When she was a small girl, she used to greet me with a lavish smile. Now she is in her teens and when she passes by, she does not even look and treats me like complete stranger. Sometimes I wonder if she is my own daughter. But then I don’t as her mother has been fucked by many.

figure

This is a visual-linguistic illusion were the aesthetic is manifested as deconstructions of meaning where meaning severed and at the same time retained.
Lucifer is a God to Yes of every desire. White colored Quakers were strolling out of the church as Sunday divitinities. I felt like devil seething with evil on seeing them. I would love to fuck a woman at the altar of the church. I am paradox of being emotionally feminine and analytically masculine.

cross

The Cross is a pun-dramatic word, retaining meaning even while being crossed out. The Cross is an artstheticarchetype, retaining and disintegrating meaning at the same time. The stars resembling cat’s eyes were out… The sea was frolicking in full glee. I sat on the sandy beach and it screamed like Edward Munch painting moonlight. I got out the cheapest, Kerala’s proletarian rum named Greek as Hercules. The first gulp is the hardest to take. When it’s gulped, the awful shit of a taste triggers the body to retch. It’s with a mammoth effort that one has to kill it into the throat once again. The time in me started feeding with the imagination of Salvador Dali’s persistence of memory. I stumbled and fell flat on the sand. Suddenly I brushed against something. I put my hand out and felt the surface and I was able to touch Himalayan breasts. Eros blasted into my loins. I touched her again but then there was no response. I lifted her Sari and I don’t know whether I was able to insert her orifice. My white poetry came out. After that I blacked out. Early morning even before the erection of the Sun, I awoke. I tried recollect all what I did in the night. But my memory was blank as a white piece of paper. Then I saw her. I tried to wake her up by giving her a push. There was no response. Then I touched her belly and I became shocked. She was a cold refrigerated meat. I became frightened and horrified. Quickly I ran away from the place.
My thought now is like a vibrator inserted into a cunt; the moment it starts agitating, my body intensifies into multi-orgasmic zones of intense pleasure.
Angst, you corpse decked with roses; you odor your essences into the body, narcissifying it as a desert. Why do you crowd the human mind more intensely than pleasures—yet you are sinful in the fruit of a poem, fleshy and savoring the intricacies of the body.
God—he felt ironic as being a goody goody creator. God sighed mournfully and thought of what more he could create. Yes and that’s someone powerful enough to challenge him. At last God laughed hysterically like the uterus of a woman; the God Christ became stoned and in a fit of delirium, he created his own pride—the Lord Lucifer. Lucifer was an Aphrodite and he had many gay, sexual and heterosexual rites, orgies and bacchanalia with demonic entities mixing them up in multiplicities of orientations. They ecstasied in days of poetry. This made God bitterly jealous of his creation, and God flung it down as the historical other, the marginalized, autochthonic subaltern into the abyss of hell. God’s jealousy was Catholic and bitchy in ramifications.
I am not going to be destructed by the esoteric sadism of God. My woe and misery is a gay science of laughter.
Freedom—the absurd paradox inherent in the Ten Commandments—man is woefully limited by law and yet is paradoxically, hyperborean in freedom.
The Serpent was Eve’s Lesbian Lover. Eve you ate the forbidden fruit of the loins; you tasted the liqueur of licentious libido. Yet Eve why did you hide your orientation from Adam when you seductively presented him the fruit? Eve you are the feminist of anarchic bisexualism a futurism of being femino-woman-tognist. Eve, you have open the sacred flesh, the ontology of the language of (w) holes to the Taj Mahal of freedom.
Repressed is a magical realism of a pregnant belly teeming with dungeon of talons, fangs and forked tongues. Sad to say time whispers sedately: “mother fucker, up yours.”
Purpose in life is a miasma of chewable dung. Kindness—Mother Mary was born with a silver spoon in her cunt.
Envy, hatred, avarice, lust aren’t feeble; they are all powerful manifestations of the soul. Even infinity cannot fathom the power of human desire. Evening belched clouds of spitting rain. The Devil is a comic exaggeration and God is a comic hyperbole. The many women that I love are all poems for me. I would love to hire many whores, pay them and get them drunk and copulate with them in the monsoon of orgies.
A writer should not write for the market or for the masses or for ideologies; s/h/e has to indulge in the art of a novel writing. Joyce exteriorized streams of consciousness. How to interiorize it and manifest it in the epiphanies of the mundane and the trivial encounter of the body with the ontology of being? The womb that has birthed me has become a symbol of authority, tyranny, domination. I wish I was not born with hatred for it. Religions pervert being into Ethics. Epiphany—you are a mournful rainy evening. Whores: “don’t reject me or my cash”.
Every time I set a wish in motion trying to believe the mystics that there is a vibrational, positive energy in the universe, my whishes spring to me as loser’s shit.
If time is real, then it’s a whore that fucks the present, woos the past and spread out the future in disinterestedness.
An Egyptian Anubis, black body and green eyes walking on the roof has awakened my consciousness to purr back mumbo jumbo. Cogito ergo sum said Descartes: ‘I think therefore I exist’. Existence is the carnivalization of the multi-orgasmic, a polyphony of dialogism in narratives of a cun, rational sometimes, irrational other times, emotional most of the time. Nietzsche has proclaimed that God is dead. But the conundrum of leading Zarathustrian life is enigmatic. Yoga is crap as it sacrifices the ego to a nonsensical plane of existence. Zen, in you I have found paltry coins of shit. Judas you are not a tragic hero; you are a comic existential hero who savored money rather than Christ’s redemption. Renaissance, you proclaim enlightenment and yet you carried the burden of the past as religious iconography. Ages have tempered your mind in the Christianity of worship. Perversion has no goal, no ideal but just a being wrapped in murky clothes injected with the legion of Sade and Masoch.
As life grows older the newness is lost—one is in the irony of stale shit. Fantasy you crowed my mind with disgruntlement. The abundance of choice is a paradox of making one. Sleeplessness you have devoured me and made me an insomniac. I need sleeping pills and rum to put me to the slumber of death. Bribery is ruling the day in Kerala politics. Being petite bourgeoisie is falling prey to culture morals and values. Sartre –you make a meaning –angst in disappointment. Why the stone statue of Mary is weeping? A stone! That’s trash! Gender and orientations, you are deconstructions in Philosophy. Nuns are alienated but raping them is condemnable. Philosophy, clothe the language of meaning. Poetry, the body is sublime in the profanity of dirt. Existence—philosophy can’t live it. Enacting a meaning is tiresome. A proletarian life has no leisure, no sex, and no time to evaluate the meaning of existence. Irony arose when abundance became scarcity. Hyperbole bullies the instinct. Perversion, the worm of the body—it’s an orifice of suckling. Truth is a discourse –a norm—a truth has to ejaculate multi-orgasms. Every Nun, I hate the Mary in them, otherwise they would have been fuckable !
As life grows older, the newness is lost one is the irony of stale shit. Fantasy you crowd my mind with disgruntlement. The abundance of choice is a paradox of making one. Sleepless, you have devoured me as an insomniac. I need rum and sleeping pills to put me to the slumber of death. Bitch! You are profound in the eclectic catharsis of meaning. Wiccan you have created the pulp of meaning for Harry potter to be exorcised.
Is ruling in Kerala’s politics being petite bourgeoisie is falling prey to culture and morals, and values. Sartre—you make a meaning, even in angst. Why does the statue of fucking Mary weep. It’s a stone and its trash. Gender and orientations are deconstructions in Philosophy. Nuns are alienated beings but raping them is condemnable. Philosophies clothe the language of meaning. Poetry—the body is sublime in the profanity of dirt. Existence –philosophy can’t live it. Enacting a meaning is tiresome. Irony arose when abundance became a scarcity. A proletarian life has no leisure, no sex, and no time to evaluate the meaningful existence. Irony arose when abundance became scarcity. Hyperbole you bully the instinct. Perversion, the worm of the body –it’s an orifical sucklening. Truth is a discourse—a norm—a truth which is to ejaculate in multi-orgasmic meanings. Every Mary, I hate the nun in them –otherwise they could have been good fuckable human beings.
Poetry—the body is sublime in the profanity of dirt. Existence –philosophy can’t live it. Enacting a meaning is tiresome. A proletarian life has no leisure, no sex, and no time to evaluate meaningful existence. Irony arose when abundance became scarcity. Hyperbole bullies the instinct. Perversion, the worm of the body—it’s an orifice of all orificial suckling. Truth is a discourse—a norm—truth has to ejaculate in multi-orgasms. Every Nun, I hate the Mary in them, otherwise they would have been fuckable. Secret societies, you have transported me to the mystical and the magical but in the end I am a nothingness of deep shit. Analingus I am mystic refugee of your magnanimous state, and I am addicted to you in love. Consciousness can expand and fill the mind with money and the body with desire. Consciousness is a cult of satiation. Poetry, you are my darling tongue, yearning to stick music in every woman’s orifice. Arranged marriage you have been a wretched human being. Kundalini –the sacred serpent that wakes up the loins –a mojo-mumbo jumbo which does not transcend the catharsis of existential living. Poetry is sacred in the heart and erotic in the body. Profanity, you can transcend even shit into sublimity. Profanity you have to make the meaning of time.

A lesbian-o-cracy would make the world meaningful and peaceful. Saint or Swamy, why do you go to the Himalayas and worship in caves, prostrating before ice phalluses? You can nourish your mind with your own phalluses. India—you have beaten me with the rod of justice, tempered me with the tranquility of morals, and subdued me in cultural fascism. I am not restrained! I break free and that’s wisdom in collaboration of the mind. What can be known– Nothing but the body of desires? Catharsis you reinstate the mind to a carnival of erotopiea. The Hellenic Greek, the Orthodox Syrian Christian of Kerala, I see to break out of your clutches and create an aesthesis of individualized being. Catharsis, I invoke you as a beauty, mental typhoon of angst and pacific embrace of pleasure. Deconstructions have to experientialize a new concept of the man and woman being reason and passion. Solomon—you wasted soul; you had no lack and that’s why you went a lofty mythical ideal of proclaiming that everything in the world is vanity and chasing the wind. The have-nots have to a have grotesque justification. Oh! It’s a pukeish feeling, associative with stench and colored with shit when one experiences the pain of rejection. My, I would love to be whipped by an aged woman on my bums; whipped till my skin bleeds… What an erotic Masoch I experience! American jazz you submerge my being to a fornication of tranquility. American rock of 70’s and 80’s I have found in you a libido of musical prose. I am in a mental Diaspora wounded by my nation, sex, religion and gender. Exodus I am caught up in an unattainable West.
Mary—you are cruel nuns who have confiscated my being in the asylum of your culture. Lucifer, Mammon, Baphomet, Azazel, Beelzeebub and Aphrodite, by your worship I have become a nihiliated being, anxious to the ambiguities of your procrastination. Whores, I need you in my life to live the orgies of poetry; if I have the source, I will also be generous. “Bloody Bitch”, you are eclectic to the catharsis of meaning. Time has a valuable whore in the hinges of her being. Wiccan, you have created the pulp of beings for Harry Potter. I exorcise you in my mind, keeping aesthetic interests at stake. The ass of Indian pornographic slut expands to me as a middle class being caught up in the wanting of good sex. The phallus of Shiva is not found in some ice-holed, fucking cave; it’s found in existential desire to copulate. Mental interiority and external stimuli are different. Interiorizing external stimuli is what modern novelists like Joyce have been attempting. Art—t he novel is a philosophy of writing and a poetry of meaning.

I kick my desires and shove them up my ass if they are not satisfied. If dreams could actualize into happenings—alas I mourn in discontentment. Proletarian rum, dirt, filthy third rate crap, at least you help me ejaculate meanings from the repressed.
I love older women, especially extremely ugly ones; they have a great compassion of feeling; they playful, poetic and embrace my body to a musical concerto, lust of plenitude, a gratitude that I profoundly love.
Catharsis you are polyphonic, chaotic and angstual or extremely liberational in joys. Why are there more sluts than gigolos? There is sexism in the psychology of desire which privileges the woman. Poetry, redeem my being into the infinity of lasciviousness. Mary—the fucking nuns in the asylum have screwed my thoughts and abused me with male nurses and reduced me to a state of nothingness. The asylum—I was send there. It’s an institution which ferociously assaults the body and creates a jail of the mind.
Metaphors wake me up—adorn your clothes and fertilize new meaning. My wife has been a tragedy of lack of desire. Time—I would love to inherit interiority oblivious to exteriority. Living in a petite bourgeoisie family of Kerala is pretty tragic. They place a high value on Christian ethics; they are disinterestedness in sexual mores; they have no mooring to experientialize art. They are wrapped up in a tight clit of ideology.
A Magdelenic love and romance for Christ, sad to say went unreciprocated by the savior. Art—I have caught time in the prison of my soul. Art—make me live in enriched meanings. I end up being negations of desire. America is a polyphonic nation—a vibration of many cultures—everything in America is renewed in the search for meanings. Kant the intellect of reason and the intuition of passion, you have made a salmagundi with philosophy. Reason, I have to exert a meaning and passion, I have to satisfy it. Ideologies—I have found the serpent in you; you have no regard for the individual human being.
The height of optimism is: even a needle can be found in a haystack. I always dream of robbing a bank and raping a woman. A drink oozes my subconscious out. Legends and myths are adulterated to form figures of speech. It’s precarious to balance an emotional body and a rational mind.
Beatitudes are flowers of lust awakening in the body. Dreams drug the cave of satisfaction. Words have to overcome for meanings to be throned. It’s no silly thing that the mind can project futures of gratifying desire. The heat of the tropics sticks like stains in the body. Myself—I am polyphonic and multifarious. Cannabis, you have woken time into dissident consciousness of meaning. When the phallus is erect it becomes a tool of benediction. Touch me not is a plant that will shut its eyes, the moment it is touched. Evil does not limit the consciousness of desire. A mojo—I have only ink that ejaculates letters of meaning. I would love to have a woman much older than me to satisfy my oedipal fantasies. Echoes are distant but they reverberate the solitude of the heart in longing. Time in the interior is divergent, sometimes pathological, and wholly schizophrenic. Fairies are my weeping tears. Trolls are grotesque phallic constructs. I have to conquer the cross that carried me either by grace or by desire. Grace theologians adopt a conciliatory that helplessness of sin makes it forgivable. Tropes, you have to sabotage my heart to find Faustian-Epicurean meanings. I wait for the day to be physically united to the bitch that betrayed me. Writing from the exiled body, I look into the prison windows that have captured my existence. Soul of a poet, you release me in the into the abundance of music in your wings of flight.